#one last bark for good measure

[jayparked]

BREATHE SNAIL THAT WAS THE BARE MINIMUM I HAVE WAY MORE!😍

[randomdragonfires]

Kalopsia | One Shot

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

Kalopsia (n.) The delusion of things being more beautiful than they really are.

SUMMARY | She associates the words with brighter days and happier memories that she’ll never get back. And yet, when he utters them into her ear, they've never sounded more tainted and wrong - but she'll tell herself they aren’t, until the lies become truth.

PAIRING | Daemon Targaryen x Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; smut; DD:DNE; penetrative sex; dubious consent; exhibitionism; forced prostitution; canon typical sexism; infidelity; angst; ambiguous and unclear motives for sex - both Daemon and reader are fucked up people in this story, and there is much about their mental conflict that may be quick to trigger someone. Please read with caution.

WORD COUNT | 8.8k

A/N | This is a dark fic with heavily triggering themes. Please don't hate anon me. Thanks. :)

SHE REMEMBERED THE DAY SHE MET HIM. 

It was a hot summer’s day when the sun had burnt her through her dress, leaving her sweating and reaching for a drink of water every few moments. He was a vision - flying through the skies of Pentos on the Blood Wyrm, with his beautiful wife, the lady Laena Velaryon right behind him as she rode the historic wonder, Vhagar. They were a wandering couple, and talk about them had been rife in the Free Cities - dragon sightings were feared, what with the Rogue Prince’s reckless nature making people assume that he’d bathe them in dragonfire for his personal amusement. 

She remembered seeing them fly out of Pentos the first time, to tour the other Free Cities. This was almost a year ago. By the time they’d come back to reside with the Prince of Pentos, the lady Laena had suspected that she was with child. Based on what she saw of the royal couple, Prince Daemon, in his own way, was appreciative of his wife.

But being appreciative of his wife certainly did not mean that Daemon Targaryen was in any way blind to everything else around him. It was this fact that had led his eyes to her.

A striking purple, and they had met her melancholic, unmemorable ones from where he stood as the Prince of Pentos barked orders and asked her to see to Lady Velaryon’s every need. His gaze held a very peculiar combination of condescension and amusement for those around him, and she was pulled to him, in the same way that fishes were to the sea. Her world seemed to melt as she looked at him in all his Valyrian beauty - it stunned her. 

He took one leisurely glance at her - beginning his perusal of her, neck to navel. His eyes rested for a moment longer between her legs, and she’d never forget the way her thighs quickly met under her skirts in a desperate attempt to keep herself contained.

It had been a long while since she felt anything but the fleeting sense of sadness that had taken over every part of her since she had lost it all and ended up in this city. And now, as Daemon Targaryen lingered - nay, took over her line of sight, she felt something more, more, more. 

She did not know what to think about the slow storm brewing in her mind, so she chose to disregard it for a time. This was royalty, and this entire matter was well and truly beyond her weight. She should not bother with the likes of those who were higher and mightier - those that would never choose her and harm her with no regard.

But the intense wildfire-like heat that passed through her body was hard to ignore, especially given the potent lack of it in the last many years. It scared and excited her in equal measure, and regardless of the possibility of danger, she could not help but be drawn to him. She felt like an ungrateful, wanton whore for lusting after another woman’s husband - a very good woman, she would soon find - but how could she reject the man who had woken her passions once more, after she thought they were long lost to her? All with just a single look, no less?  

It was often said that the Targaryens were closer to Gods than men. With their dragons, intoxicating eyes and intense gazes, she was inclined to agree. 

It was why she brought him his bathwater and helped him with his bath every morning after his dragon ride; why she scrubbed at his scarred skin with the washcloth even though he was in no need of assistance. She cleaned his chambers, and continued to do so even after he’d stepped in and burned her with his stare. Of course it burned, he was the blood of the dragon after all.

She found herself bringing his heated bathwater despite the flight of stairs that she had to brave while carrying the weight. She helped him in and out of his clothes everyday, listening to his commands like a mindless soldier who only did what she was told. She always looked for him, even in a chamber of more than a hundred people - her young girl’s gaze, flitting about - trying to find his spun-silver hair.

Whenever she caught his gaze, he was already looking.

She supposed she'd never get tired of the heat pooling in her belly whenever she was in his presence - or how her hands found their way inside her already dampened smallclothes whenever she pictured him with shut eyes at night time.

Perhaps that’s why she felt like it was a long time coming when he creeped up behind her, hand holding her in place as it snaked around her waist. His palm flattened against her stomach and the other held her neck, squeezing just enough to make the heat rush to her cheek and between her legs. He brought his nose down to the side of her neck, laughing darkly as they breathed each other in, and she let a small whimper escape her lips.

“What took you,” she breathed out before adding, “…so long?” He responded to her meek attempt at a question with a sharp bite to her neck and a growl, effectively silencing her voice and awakening the fire in her once more.

“Don’t be too loud, you’re going to wake my wife,” he whispered before turning her around to meet her eyes.

Those words should have woken her up and brought her to reality. She should have awoken from her wistfulness and tossed her fantasies where they’d bother her no more. This was a married man, a married prince. 

This was wrong, wrong, wrong.

But the blood rushing through her veins, the excitement of being coveted and central to a man’s gaze - it excited her in ways that she had never been before. The allure of him was hard to ignore, and by the looks of how eagerly his hands were slipping under her haphazardly hiked up skirts, he felt the same way too.

She’d missed this feeling - this feeling of being alive and full of life. The prospect of excitement and a renewed zest for life, after all she had been through, had only pushed her towards him a lot more. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

She was blind to the dangers of the man, and she'd never been happier to remain ignorant. She did not want to want him, and she hated that she did. She did not say yes to his command, or emphatically agree. She simply took his lips in hers and sunk her fingers into his hair, reveling in the feel of his rough hands holding her backside in a tight grip.

She may not love him, and she did not like him. But she wanted this, she needed this. She needed to feel something, anything at all. She supposed that there’s something that he wants too - though she does not know what.

She soon found that there was very little in their burgeoning arrangement that would favor her fantasies, and that Daemon Targaryen simply did not care - for anyone.

“WILL YOU BE NEEDING ANYTHING ELSE, MY LADY?”

Laena Velaryon is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women she’s ever laid her eyes on. She is also one of kindest souls she’s ever had the courtesy of encountering - which is why her guilt eats at her tenfold whenever Daemon seeks out her company.

She wants to say no. She wants to say no each time.

Initially, it was an infatuation that was within her control - but the day she had indulged and let her body overshadow her mind, it had become a bit much. Initially, he had sensed her hesitation despite her being welcoming. He’d plied at her with sweet words, each syrupy sweet and meant to break through her doubt. 

She melts each time, her weak will giving in like water slipping through her fingers.

Conflict is a funny thing. Each time his hands pin her wrists above her head as he takes her for all that she is, or when he’d let a finger slip through her smallclothes and glide through her folds, she wants to say no. She wants to be the good girl that her mother believed she was, but the pleasure was too much. The high that he takes her on each time is too much to ignore, too good to pass up on.

She wants to say no. The words wait at her throat, but refuse to tumble out of her lips.

It is wrong, but she wants to feel pleasure. She wants to be reminded that she is a woman worthy of pleasure, and she feels good- no matter how guilt-ridden - each time his cock sinks into her. No other man has wanted and loved her like this before, and despite the horridness of it all, she finds that she cannot say no - no matter how hard she tries. 

However, she doesn't know what he wants. Daemon Targaryen wears his intrigue as well as he does his arrogance and condescension. She never knows what he wants - but she also worries that she may not like what she finds.

She will find out soon.

“That will be all, my sweet,” Laena says. The exhausted smile she wears as she cradles her hugely pregnant belly makes her want to throw herself at her feet and cry for mercy - but she is too in deep. How could she tell Daemon she didn’t want to share his bed anymore? How could she, when his power and famed temper may just harm her? 

I’m sorry your husband fucks me each night. I’m sorry I like it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

What right does she have, after allowing it all these times? What right does she have, after enjoying it each time? She doesn't love him, but in those moments, she loves what she feels. The regret that follows is gut-wrenching, but she chooses to indulge each time. It was a blind and burning desire, and it is this very same wave of emotion that compels her to follow his instructions, blind and eager to please.

A servant walks into the room and looks towards the window, eyes flitting about and nervous. “The Prince Daemon has asked to see you, lady.” Her tone is apologetic, and when Laena Velaryon stands, she feels herself crumble to a thousand pieces. When she is half-stood, the Valyrian beauty realizes it is not her that her husband wants to see tonight.

“Go. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” she murmurs. A heavy sigh escapes her lips as she sits back down, the weight of the impending babe taking a toll on her.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

She is ashamed of the peculiar heat pooling in her belly as she walks out, unable to meet Lady Laena’s eyes. The walk to Daemon’s chambers has her head facing the floor as some of the other servants eye her and whisper the words.

Homewrecker. Whore. Concubine.

She wonders about how she could still want him after all the irreparable damage that she’s taken in her mind. She wonders when her lack of spine would dissipate, and when she’d be able to reject him outwardly and speak her mind. She wonders when she’d be able to make up her mind and stand by her decision.

She hates that she enjoys it, she hates that she’s at the center of it all. But he brings her to her peak effortlessly and with such intensity that she forgets for a moment, for just a moment, how wrong all of this is.

She pushes the door open and gulps at the sight of a half naked Daemon Targaryen sitting at the edge of his bed, hands pumping his cock with no urgency. The languid movements and his haphazard state of undress - his linen undershirt doing little to hide the lithe muscles underneath - make her head spin. He is yet to touch her.

She watches, his presence magnetic as he pulls her attention easier than he should. His gaze then finds hers as she stands frozen near the door, his breath a mangled mix of moans and groans as his hand refuses to relent. He looks at her as he continues his movements on his cock, and her thighs slap together while she folds her hands just below her breasts, pushing them up above the neckline of her dress.

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of her face as she makes her way to him, each step feeling labored and long as she positions herself between his legs. Her view of his cock is undisturbed and clear, and she hates that it is the most beautiful one that she’s ever seen. Slightly leaning to the left, the girth of it impresses her each time he pushes into her, making her feel fuller than ever before.

She continues to watch his hands move, movements as slow as ever. Her eyes are fixated upon the light silver hair that marked a path below his abdomen, and the veins that marked their way through his erect cock. The glistening white pearly drops of seed on the tip called to her, and her mouth began to water. 

“Take it” - he grunts through his pleasure - “off.”

She’s been in this position long enough to know what it means.It is one thing to lust after a man from afar, and another to be fucked by him. It is neither safe, nor ideal for her to be using her mouth on a Westerosi Prince whose wife was only one door away. And yet, they’ve been giving each other company for almost a year. 

She works through the laces on her front one by one, her focus on his almost black, dilated pupils. He wants her, and she wants him. It is seemingly simple, and yet it is the most complicated entanglement she has ever known.

He’s never been the most patient man to grace these halls, and it is evident as he stops the hand on his cock and stands up. He reaches for the dagger on a tray of fruit by the table, and swiftly cuts through the loops in a series of flicks. Each time the dagger cut through, the stray threads flew about and he dusted them off with the same disregard and impatience. 

“You’re going to take my cock in your mouth like the good girl that you are,” he growls. Candlelight illuminates his face as his dagger makes its way through the fabric, revealing her soft skin and exposing her breasts to him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

And yet, as the cool metal of his dagger grazes over her nipple ever so slightly, the fire in her burns bright. Her fear dictates that she say no and run before it can spiral into something beyond her control, but the faint waves of pleasure that cause the dampness between her thighs  keeps her there - almost as though her legs are stuck in quicksand.

The dress pools at her feet and she steps out of it, his hurried hands removing her shift. And when they stand, facing each other - and she wishes this was something else.

She wishes this was a simple and innocent love affair. She wishes that this was a man she could love, one that would love her just the way she would. She wishes that there was more comfort to be gained from this than the highs of the pleasure in itself - It will never be enough for her.

She reaches forward and kisses him flush on the lips, devouring his as she slips her tongue in. He bites into her lip and she tastes the copper of the blood bubbling through; he grabs her by the hair and pulls her up to meet his eye. “I said -”

“Please. Please, just… Please. Let me have this.”

He leans back and assesses her for just a moment before swooping in and taking her lips in his, no questions asked. And when he kisses her so, she can try to convince her little girl’s heart that this - what they have - is a lot more beautiful than it is meant to be.

The kiss makes her think that this is what the heavens would feel like, should she ever manage to meet the caress of a lover who’d love like she could, like she wants. A gentle and calm hand, a kind disposition that would care.  But it does not last long. He is quick to wrangle her mouth away and join her forehead to his, breathing in the scent of her as she closes her eyes and wonders how this could ever be what she wants, wrestling with the contrasting realization that she has not been loved like this, not ever.

But is this love, really? This cannot possibly be love. No. She’s known love before. It is simple, easy and comforting. Nothing about this is. 

She wants it just the same.

It is this thought that occupies her mind as she gets down on her knees. The stone cold floor and the ridges grate at her knees almost immediately, moving slightly as she bobs her head back and forth. She slowly but surely adjusts to his length, choking a little and allowing the spit to pool in her mouth, dripping down to her chin by the side of her lips. If she didn’t know better, she’d have mistaken him gently wiping it off with the tip of his thumb as affection.

She grabs his thigh with one hand and massages his stones with the other, her head continuing to bob back and forth relentlessly. His hands grasp at her hair, keeping the stray strands at bay as she reminds herself to breathe through her nose. She moves almost mechanically, forgetting him and his towering figure as she wonders. What do I look like to him? On my knees and eyes pooling with tears? 

It is a common saying among the common folk - A King’s child will be royalty, and a whore’s child will be a whore. She is the daughter of a whore, and she hates that the words may hold true for her too. 

Mama wanted for me to be more. Dignified and happy. She should not have died and left me alone.

She remembers a time when her mother had brought a friend of hers from the whorehouse back home. Her mother was a favorite amongst the nobility, and she’d entertained both the then-Prince Viserys and Daemon.

She’d become with child soon after, and had her. The idea of either man possibly being her father is sickening to her, given the position she now finds herself in. Of course, it will not matter much to them, with their Valyrian blood and queer customs - but it makes her want to cry her eyes out and worry about the kind of sickness she must inhibit to want Daemon Targaryen as much as she does despite the knowledge, despite the wrongness of it all. Her only consolation is that she has no Valyrian features. There is no way of knowing for sure, and she chooses not to entertain these thoughts while being aided by this realization. 

“Good girl. Go on,” he moans. His voice immediately brings her out of her reverie, and the words are enough to send her conflicted conscience spinning on its head.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

Her mother called her a good girl many times before she died. The connotations of the word when they tumble out of Daemon’s lips make her want to retch. He probably believes that the tears are because of her choking on him, but she knows.

Those words meant much and more to her once upon a time, but not anymore. The loss hurts her more than it should. A lost childhood, a happiness that slipped through her fingers through no fault of her own. A much happier and carefree time that is now out of her grasp.

Her thoughts are interrupted when Daemon pulls her up - a thread of spit flowing out of her lips as she adjusts to an empty mouth - and pushes her, caging her between him and the cold stone wall.

Good girl, good girl, good girl. 

WHENEVER SHE THOUGHT OF THE TIMES that she got called a good girl, her mother was always the first to come to mind.

The city of King's Landing - she’d spent almost her entire life there before running onto the ship to Pentos - sprawled around them like a tapestry woven from the threads of countless lives. Towering structures of stone reached for the heavens, casting long shadows that danced across cobblestone streets worn smooth by time. The bustling crowd, a mosaic of colors and voices, flowed like a river through the labyrinthine alleys. The scent of roasted meats, exotic spices, and the ever-present stench of refuse mingled in the air, creating a symphony of odors that was, somehow, comforting in its familiarity.

Her mother worked at a whorehouse nestled amidst the chaotic and filthy heart of the Street of Silk. It was a place where laughter and merriment battled with sorrow and desperation, where secrets and pleasures were shared over wine, closed curtains and weak beds. As a child, she was vaguely aware of the nature of her mother's work, but she didn't fully grasp its complexities. What she did understand was that her mother often came home weary, her shoulders burdened by the weight of the world - or by bite marks and blooming violet bruises.

"Why would anybody bite you there, Mama?" she had asked once. Her mother had only chuckled, but she did not look happy. It always worried her. The bites always looked red, angry and painful.

It was the same bite mark and a line of violet bruises on her mother’s shoulder that she focused on today as she overheard her speak to her friend - another whore who worked at the same whorehouse. She watched as her mother exchanged quiet words with her friend, their voices a hushed whisper as they discussed their day.

“He does something magical with his mouth, Brenna. You would not believe it!” Her mother’s friend looked very happy as she giggled and recounted a story that she caught pieces and fragments of. The mother herself did not look happy, however - the little girl knew when her mother wasn’t happy. Don’t ask how, she simply did.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The evening sun painted the walls with warm hues, and as the other woman departed, her mother sank onto the edge of the bed. a far-off look in her eyes and a heavy sigh on her lips. 

Without a word, she fetched a basin of water, warm and soothing, and knelt by her mother’s side. Gently, the child removed her boots and began to massage her mother’s tired feet, her small, untrained hands working diligently to ease the discomfort to the best of her ability. The older woman closed her eyes, and a soft smile graced her lips as the tension in her muscles began to melt away.

In that moment, she saw her mother as more than just a tired whore; she saw her as a woman who carried the weight of their little world on her shoulders. The love she felt for her was immense, and it swelled within the child like a river after a storm. But the bite marks and the bruises still looked painful, and they still scared her.

And so, the child’s curiosity got the better of her, and she let the question slip from her innocent lips. "Will I have to work there too when I'm grown up? At the whorehouse?"

Her mother’s eyes flickered open, and a shadow of sadness crossed her face, barely noticeable but unmistakably obvious to her daughter’s young heart. She took a deep breath and then, with a gentle smile, replied, “Perhaps you won’t have to. Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me."

"But I love you a lot, Mama," the young girl said, her voice filled with innocence and devotion.

With a tender sigh, her mother pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her as if to shield her from the harsh world beyond that she was yet to see. 

If only.

"And I love you, my sweet child," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "You are such a good girl. You’re my little girl."

In that moment, the girl felt a profound sense of pride in being her mother’s daughter, in the simple act of bringing comfort to her tired soul. The city of King's Landing may have been a tumultuous sea of chaos, but in that room, with her mother's arms around her, she found her anchor, her safe harbor, and a love that she hoped would guide her through any storm.

HER BACK PRESSING INTO THE STONE WALL MAKES HER SHUDDER.

The cold sensation grating against her skin and the eerie chill of the night air make her weak in the knees. Daemon Targaryen’s cock moves against her cunt like it belongs there and nowhere else - the irony of that thought while his wife waits for him in her chambers close by is not lost on her, but she cannot deny how strongly she feels that the man is made for her.

Even if he truly was not.

His lips are immediately on hers, and she devours them for all that they are worth. She enjoys being kissed - it helps her feel wanted by him.

Even if she knew he did not.

Her hands move to the hem of Daemon’s linen undershirt, pushing it up, up, up until it is carelessly thrown halfway across the chamber. She only has one moment to get a look at his naked figure before he pushes against her and cages her between his towering figure and the wall once more. The feeling of heat passing through the pair of them and the smell of sweat and sex is intoxicating to her in a way that she struggles to put into words. Her cunt is wet with arousal as she whimpers into the kiss, allowing him to slip his tongue into her mouth. 

Time stops when they kiss. She supposes it is a beautiful thing, no matter how wrong it was.

Do things have to be right for them to be beautiful anyhow?

Her breasts are flush against his chest as he takes a hold of them, pinching her nipples until they hurt and she gasps into his mouth. He does not stop, however - her pain only seems to spurn him more, and she is ashamed to find that she is aroused as well. One of her hands travels above his neck and she tightly grips onto the root of his hair, pulling until he is in just as much pain and pleasure as she is. The other moves over the scarred planes of his back, almost as though she was mapping out a route to paradise.

The feeling of his cock pushing against her wet cunt sends waves of pleasure coursing through her, the blood rushing to her head and making her feel hazy. She lets the touches take her to the Seven hells - both the man and the circumstances making that their only possible destination.

She wonders if Laena Velaryon wishes for that too.

His cock pushes into her, stretching her walls so wide that she fears he may just split her into two. She needs a moment to adjust and he is generous enough to let her have it as his lips descend onto her neck, leaving her staring blankly at the bed as she breathes heavily. She cranes her neck just a little as she lets his cock settle in her.

And then, he moves.

She often believes that she lives with an aching sense of yearning and pushes through each day finding something to leave her feeling fulfilled. It is an empty feeling really, and the only time she ever feels like she is not a living shell of a woman is when he takes her. The feeling of being filled by him is one that always takes her by surprise - but unlike the other times that she's been taken unawares, this is something she welcomes.

“Yne drējī sȳrī jiōrā, talus. Sepār otāptan, sepār ñuhys ēdruryssy iemnȳ.” [You take me so well, niece. Just as I believed you would, just as I imagined.]

He always says these words whenever he enters her, and she never manages to retain them long enough to ask what they mean - the high of her peak always leaves her mind feeling like melted gold, taking away any chance for coherent conversation. 

Is he referring to someone? Is he appreciating her? Is he saying that he loves her? Somehow, she knows it is not the latter. She won’t have to try and remember to ask tonight - she would find out soon what it is he has gotten out of this all these days.

Every thrust is punctuated by grunts and moans, with both of them hungry for more. She meets every single one of his harsh thrusts as one of her hands slips in between them both, circling and pressing onto her pearl like her entire life was dependent on the pleasure that came from it.

It made sense. The pleasure he gives her each time is what keeps her alive.

Each brush of his flush pink tip against a rough spot inside her cunt makes her eyes roll back in pleasure. He hits it with each thrust as he pounds into her, face always wearing a mask of pursuit - but of what?

What does he want from her?

Her hand on her pearl and his cock in her is swiftly building a pool of heat in her belly - no, not the blazing kind, but a warm kind. It builds, builds, builds and she flies, flies, flies until she can’t go any higher, and she lets herself go limp in his arms as her peak takes over her entire being. 

“That’s it….” He grunts, pushing into her while punctuating each thrust with his words as he relentlessly pushes into her. “Good girl. Dāeremās, sȳres riñus iksā.” [Let go, you’re a good girl.]

She sees red as the pleasure washes over her, vision becoming hazy and rendering her incoherent for many a moment before she manages to bring herself back down to earth. And as the sights around her become clear again, she clings onto him and breathes while looking over his shoulder.

The world looks newer and brighter each time she comes down from the highs that he causes. And in this moment, his last words hit her like the stone wall that she stands in front of.

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

How can a pair of words remind her of what she was then and is now, all at the same time? How can these words hold so much power that they’d coax her into paradise and leave her there, lost and wanting for more, more, more?

She leans back and holds herself straight, looking into his eyes for only a short moment as she gathers herself. It is a deep sea of bright violet and she drowns, drowns, drowns.

She's been drowning in him and trying to catch her breath for a long while now. She's not sure if she wants to be saved - she wants a hand, and pushes it off too.

What does that mean for her?

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

The memory forms in her mind as Daemon Targaryen moves them both and turns her around to make her see out the window - fully naked. She braces herself with two palms holding onto either sides of the window as he pulls her backside to him and spreads her wide, leaving her glistening and sensitive cunt open for him to take once more. His hand moves almost softly over her rear as he enters her once more, this time purely to chase his own release.

“Good girl.”

KING’S LANDING WAS BUSTLING WITH TRAVELERS THIS TIME OF THE YEAR, and she was now fourteen summers old.

She had blossomed into womanhood, her youth adorned with beauty and a vague innocence - yet tarnished by the harsh realities of her life. She toiled at a tavern, where raucous patrons screamed sweet syrupy words at her, attempting to lure her away with their promises. 

“I’ll show you a good time, lass! C’mere!” The man at the table said, patting his thighs and indicating that he’d like for her to sit on his lap.

She had witnessed her own mother endure such advances, and now, as a grown woman, she was the object of many a man’s desire. She was both confused and intrigued, for the attention made feel disgusted yet wanted at the same time.

On one seemingly uneventful day, she counted her earnings - four copper pennies - and began to try and do the addition to determine how much more she would need to settle her mother's debt with the ominous madame of the whorehouse that her mother worked at. Her brother was meant to bring home his pay too tonight, and the sum of their combined efforts held the promise of lifting their family from the pit of debt that had ensnared them. As she left the tavern to head home, the weight of her responsibilities hung heavily upon her young shoulders.

Along her path back home, she encountered a pair of inebriated travelers, their intentions dark and menacing. They seized her arm, grip threatening to harm her fragile spirit. In the midst of her fear, a figure emerged from the shadows, a protector amidst the dangerous chaos. It was Brynden, her brother’s Riverlander friend - she has secretly admired him for years. As she held onto the stone walls of the roads for dear life, he  confronted the drunken men and drove them away from her.

She could not help the slight blush on her face as he checked if she was alright. Her mother once told her that she might find a husband that would love her - is this what love is?

Her young heart believed that it was.

Once he was sure that she was alright, Brynden brought her the news that he’d wanted to tell her. Her brother, it appeared, had squandered his earnings on ale once more and now lay incapacitated on the side of the Street of Silk after finishing an afternoon at a whorehouse. Determined to shield her mother from disappointment, she rushed to her brother's side, her heart pounding with a fervent resolve.

The smell of baked treats and food soon morphed into fragrant yet strong oils, wafting from half-naked women hoping to get a man to pay for their cunts. As she looked around, she finally found the whorehouse that her brother frequented. 

She found him in a pitiful state, his speech slurred and incoherent as he mumbled in his inebriated stupor. Anguish welled within her; he would not be bringing any money home this time either. But despite her frustration, she could not help but love him. He was her brother, and the bonds of blood ran deep.

Gently, she guided him through the winding streets, their journey fraught with the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainty of their future. He babbled on, his words a testament to his gratitude and admiration for her sense of duty. 

“You’re a good girl, sister,” he’d said, his voice trembling with affection. “Good girl.” She pressed a tender kiss upon his sweaty forehead, her love for her brother transcending any and all disappointments. 

As the night unfolded into dawn, she herself succumbed to the embrace of sleep, her brother beside her, a fragile moment of solace amidst the tumult of their lives. When she awoke, he was gone, vanished into the shadows of the city, never to be seen again. Her heart ached with longing, but she never harbored resentment. She waited, and in her waiting, she remained faithful to the last words her brother had spoken to her. 

Good girl, good girl, good girl.

In the years that followed, she missed him every day. Her mother's health deteriorated, the weight of their struggles taking a toll. But she persevered, striving to be the good girl her brother believed her to be, even in his absence. 

Those two words became a guiding light, a reminder of the love they shared, of what she always hoped to be.

THE COLD AIR HITS HER SQUARE IN THE CHEST, and she is made aware of how exposed she is.

Daemon’s apartments are located at the topmost floors of the Prince of Pentos’ home. From where she stands, with her naked figure holding onto either side of the window as he takes her from behind, she has a clear view of the city at night. Logs of fire are lit and fitted onto stone walls on the roads, and the blurred fiery orange is visible to her as she looks down at the city that saved her. Any passerby close to her can crane their neck up just a little, and see her naked in all her glory, from neck to navel. 

Her breasts bounce as Daemon’s cock moves in and out, shining in the moonlight that her figure now obstructs, keeping the light from entering the dimly lit chamber. She lets out a strangled moan as he bullies her spot with each thrust, grunting and moaning in a mix of pleasure and exertion. The sweaty sheen on her forehead dries in the chill of the night air, and her line of sight is unstable with the way her head moves with the rest of her body.

“You like this, don’t you? For the entire world to see you spread out and wanting like this…” he says, with his lips nibbling on her ear enough to make her scream. “For them to know that you are mine. Fuck, fu-uuck!”

Mine, mine, mine. 

Is it such a bad thing to be? In this moment, as she rolls her eyes back at wave after wave of pleasure and the rapid heat blooming in her belly once more, she supposes it is. She will hate herself for wanting this when they are done for the night - but she’ll cross that bridge when it comes. 

Or burn it.

“Fuck,” she whispers as she loses herself. The shame of being put on display for every common man and woman to see is non-existent, but her heart drops at how she hates that she likes it.

A whore’s daughter is a whore too. How quickly had she given in, after all that she had done to escape a fate that wasn’t her doing?

With one particular thrust, she pushes forward a bit more than expected. She worries that she’s going to fall, fall, fall - the drop would be deathly steep and long.

She imagines what the fall would be like if her grip wasn’t tight. Her naked form falling down with her hands unable to find any purchase, flailing about as she is suspended in the air. She’d probably see all the bricks and windows in close view - perhaps, someone leaning against another window may scream as they notice her falling to what she hopes would be death, naked as her name day.

Would she be able to live it through if she miraculously and unfortunately survived that fall?

Almost as though he sensed her fear of slipping, Daemon’s hands move away from the loose grip they have on her waist. One hand snakes around her breasts and his forearm presses into her pebbled peaks, while the other cups her cunt and covers it from the cold completely. A fresh wave of arousal takes over her as he groans at the wetness that now coats his palm. The sudden warmth of his hand has her whining and moaning for more, and she moves, riding against his palm, wanting for more, more, more. It would seem that they are both insatiable tonight.

Daemon picks up the pace, his movements speeding up as she senses his desperation for release. She feels his cock hit her all the way up to her lower belly as the coil builds once more, giving her the excitement as she anticipates the sweet pleasure of release once more. She almost gives in right then, knees buckling and legs almost melting as she feels herself fly high, higher and higher still once more. Her peak washes over her in an instant as he pushes deep, her cunt only protected from the stone wall below the window by his palm.

It is a particularly long wave of pleasure that takes over her, making the hairs on her body stand upright as she struggles to stand on her own. Fire courses through her veins and her face is flushed as she finally smiles, drinking in the intense pleasure as Daemon’s thrusts get slower and slower until he spills in her too - a mix of grunts and moans as he falls apart.

The heady mix of sweat, slick and seed dripping down her thighs is enough to make her hazy and feel light in the head. Her head seems as though it is filled with cotton as her thighs quiver, making her experience relief like never before and she wants to turn and kiss him, hope to let the delusion that he loves her fester in her head a bit more and give herself the luxury of feeling genuinely loved for just a while as he-

“Good girl, Rhaenyra.”

His hands have moved away and he quickly pulls out of her, making her move forward. The stone wall hits the dark mound covering her cunt as she winces at the sudden emptiness - from both between her legs and her heart.

She’s lost her home, her memories, her happier days and a life that she loved. She’s lost enough and more for a lifetime. Daemon was never hers to be considered a loss, and she knows it too. And yet, as the realization that even his sex-addled, ill-meant compliments weren’t hers to own washes over her, she finds a lone tear slipping from her eye.

The salty taste on her lips feels like home.

Good girl, he’d said. To whom was he saying it, really?

TWO YEARS HAD PASSED SINCE HER BROTHER WALKED AWAY FROM THEIR LIVES, leaving an empty space that seemed impossible to fill. She was now a fully grown woman who was struggling to make ends meet in the bustling streets of King's Landing. Life had grown harsher with each passing day, and now, a shadow of illness loomed over their humble home.

Her mother had fallen ill, a fever that refused to break. She was too sick to continue working at the whorehouse, so they lived on scraps while the young girl’s earnings went toward settling their debts. She couldn't afford the services of a maester for her mother in the capital city, and the local healer's herbs offered little solace. Still, she continued to scrape together every copper she could find, pouring her earnings into the apothecary's pouch in a desperate attempt to buy her mother some time and relief.

Debt was a relentless specter in their lives. The madame of the local whorehouse hounded them incessantly, demanding the repayment of their debts. Her once cozy home felt increasingly suffocating, its walls closing in around them as they fought to survive.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the room, she returned home to a sight that sent a chill down her spine. Her mother appeared more sickly than usual, her brow damp with fevered sweat. She rushed to her mother’s side, her heart pounding with fear. She pressed her palm to her mother's forehead and felt the searing heat.

In her delirious state, her mother noticed her efforts to help and laughed softly, her voice a mere whisper. "Thank you my love, you’re a good girl," she murmured weakly, her eyes glazed with fever. The girl's heart ached, and she did what little she could to ease her mother's suffering. She prepared a hot bowl of soup and fed it to her mother, tears welling in her eyes as she watched the warm liquid spill from her mother's lips.

Good girl. The last words her mother had said to her. 

The night passed in anxious vigil, but by morning, her mother was gone. She had wept bitterly, her tears soaking the tattered bed linens that held the memory of happier times.

Days later, the madame of the whorehouse came knocking, a cruel glint in her eyes. She had no sympathy for the loss, only an insistence that the debt must be paid. With ruthless determination, she thrust the girl into her mother's role, forcing her to walk a path that her mother had promised she’d never have to.

“Maybe you'll find a husband who'll love you more than anyone has ever loved me,” her mother had said once. The words had no power or weight as she braced herself to welcome the lustful drunks of King’s Landing with a closed heart and open legs.

Distressed and terrified, the girl found herself in a living nightmare. The once-bustling brothel became her prison, and her innocence was sacrificed to repay a debt she had not incurred. As the first man walked through the doors that fateful night, she realized that her life had taken a dark and irreversible turn, and there was no escape from the cruelty of King's Landing's unforgiving streets.

She remembered looking at the ceiling as she whimpered, the pain of being taken for the first time making her well up in earnest. The bed made a series of creaking sounds as she let him have his way with her, and the gold coin that he’d flicked at her abdomen afterward shined like nothing she’d ever seen before.

“Gold?” she whimpered, unable to recognize the shiny metal. She looked at the coin in awe, and the man laughed cruelly. 

“Maiden whores are worth more than the usual,” he said. 

In all her years living in the stink of the city, she’d never felt dirty - but she did now.

With each night, she caged her heart and saved up the money. On some days, it’d be a penny and on some others, it’d be a silver stag. Every coin saved would buy her escape and freedom. And one night, she finally ran. 

Five silver stags for a journey aboard the first ship she could find. To Pentos.

Her job as a chambermaid at the Prince of Pentos’s home came to her as a kitchen maid took pity and took her in. For months, she’d safely worked and made more money. They provided her with a little chamber that she shared with the other maids, and food so her belly would never feel empty. She’d escaped the brothel and she wanted to believe that she’d made her mother proud. She didn’t know if she was happy, but she was her own person again - it had to count for something, regardless of how empty she felt.

Three months later, a silver-haired Rogue Prince made his descent on the palace grounds, atop the most terrifying dragon she’d ever seen - awakening what was dead in her once more.

DESPITE HOW ROUGHLY HE’D HANDLED HER JUST MOMENTS BEFORE, she felt as though she’d been doused with cold water.

Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra.

She’d believed that she was a blot of shame on Laena Velaryon’s marriage, but it would seem that a silver-haired princess - the Realm’s Delight, his niece - was doing far worse in her absence.

Had he been taking her from behind, hoping against hope that if he closed his eyes and thrusted enough, he’d be able to picture her? 

She turns around, the thrill of being put on display while in the throes of pleasure wearing off of her. She walks over to the table near the fireplace with unsteady steps, and slips on the robe that he’d discarded - possibly before she’d stepped in. The wine pitcher invites her with open arms, offering her the comfort of ignorance and forgetfulness as she tries to wrap her head around finally finding out what he’s wanted all this time.

She wanted to be able to feel something, and he wanted to feel her. Neither of them wanted each other, and she supposes that the field is now even. Somehow, she feels a bit more powerful with the knowledge that she wasn’t just someone that he took mindlessly, but was someone who helped him satisfy what she now clearly sees as his guilty desires.

She must have known. Rumors of whores being asked to call him uncle as he fucked them dizzy have floated about before - she thought they were lies, but now she’s seen firsthand how true they are.

He was married to a woman whom he probably wishes was someone else. He was straying from his marriage vows with another woman, not even the one who he wished for. She wonders if Rhaenyra Targaryen knows how deeply she is wanted and loved. 

She wonders if she will ever be loved the same way. A whore's daughter will also be a whore. Is she a whore now? Has she become what she tried to escape? And worse - does she genuinely enjoy it? 

They accompany each other in silence, the only noise being the cacophony of thoughts in their own heads. He slips into his soft trousers and sits on the edge of the bed as she passes him a goblet of wine. She sits opposite him whilst nursing her own goblet, simmering in her thoughts as she muses about her life’s journey - from a mere happy tavern wench to a prince’s solemn bed warmer.

There is a knock on the door that brings both of them out of their reverie. The servant slips in when Daemon mutters his permission and she takes in the sight of them both before looking to the floor and murmuring words that are inaudible.

“Speak up, girl,” he says. As the servant maid breathes in, she has a startling realization. His Valyrian words, the ones that she did not recognize or understand - were they for Rhaenyra too? She does not plan on asking. She supposes she’ll never know.

“Lady Laena has begun her labors, Prince Daemon.”

The servant scurries out, leaving the door half open as Daemon throws his head into his hands. She sets the goblet aside and stands in front of him, taking his head in her arms and letting it rest on her robe-clad abdomen. Her hands run over his hair in a soothing motion, almost in a lover’s embrace. Almost.

In this moment, she can tell herself that what they have is more than just sin and adultery. In this moment, she’ll tell herself that what they have is not dirty, but beautiful. 

“Go. She needs you,” she murmurs, the words once again reminding her of the precarious position she finds herself in. He walks away after dressing himself, and in the wee hours of the morning, the Prince and his wife welcome twin daughters - Baela and Rhaena.

Only four days later, she finds herself being summoned to his private apartments once more. She is now about to fuck a man who had not one, not two, but three girls in his life that he would disregard when he takes her - all in delusional pursuit of a woman who is half a world away. She hates what she is about to do, and she hates that she is already wet and wanting. 

She wants him. Despite it all, she wants him.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Her mother and brother called her a good girl, once upon a time. Would they say the same about her now?

Somehow, she knows that the answer is not something she'd want to hear.

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MASTERLIST

[ddarker-dreams]

Cherubim.

Gojo Satoru x F Reader x Geto Suguru.

Warnings: Implied trauma, Gojo and Geto are both weird + manipulative. Word count: 6k.

-Index-

March 18th, 2006. 

2:26 p.m.

-

Gojo Satoru has found himself embroiled in his greatest turmoil yet. 

Assassination attempts? That’s nothing, he’s waved those off since he was a kid. Jujutsu politics? The higher-ups can yap until they’re blue in the face; they’re all bark, no bite. Curses? Similarly inconsequential. No matter how much power they hold, they're reduced to speckled splatters the instant they cross his path. 

For most, experiencing one of these dilemmas would prove too overwhelming, much less all three. He isn’t like most, though. He’s strong. Incomprehensibly strong. He can weather any storm, shift the tides of any battle in his favor. Has this gone to his head? Absolutely. He can handle ‘too much.’ It’s ‘not enough’ that’s proving to be an issue. 

This is why he’s detailing his recent woes to an uninterested Ieri Shoko, who made the mistake of reading in the dormitory’s common area. 

The scene is as follows:

Satoru’s along the length of the couch, his long, lanky limbs dangling wherever they can. He lays his head against the armrest, snowy hair succumbing to gravity in an avalanche that frames his face. He uses his ability to keep his sunglasses from meeting the same fate. Behind the dark frames, his eyes narrow into a piercing stare. If the ceiling were sentient, it would’ve fled by now. Such is the potency of his miserable mood. 

Parallel to him sits Shoko, the fat of her cheek squished upward from resting on her fist for so long. Books, candy wrappers, and notes from last year’s curriculum yet to be thrown away litter the table’s surface. Suguru’s could put a calligraphist to shame, even if they were written in a Badtz-Maru pencil you won from a gachapon. Your notes stand out as well. They’re bright shades of your favorite colors, organized according to a system of your own devising. Occasionally, the handwriting shifts, taking on Suguru or Shoko’s likeness for trickier kanji. You doodle hearts of gratitude around the yomigana they include for good measure. 

(You complained that his handwriting was ‘indecipherable�� when he tried doing the same. Out of spite, he gave you the cold shoulder… for three minutes. He withers and wilts without your attention). 

He sighs and concludes his monologue. 

“So, that just about sums everything up. Well? What’s the prognosis, Doc?” 

“You’re in desperate need of more friends,” Shoko replies. Satoru lets out an unsatisfied grunt. “And you miss [First].” 

Satoru perks up at your mention, finally giving that poor ceiling a much-needed reprieve. He shuffles around until he’s facing Shoko. 

“But she just headed out yesterday.” 

“I know.” 

“That’d make me really weird and clingy, right?” 

“Glad you’re catching on.” 

While Satoru contemplates the previously unconsidered possibility of him being ‘really weird and clingy,’ Shoko reopens her manga. She’s of the mistaken belief that the issue has resolved itself. Unfortunately for her, the problem extends beyond Satoru’s insatiable hunger for you. The problem is Satoru himself. Until he’s running amuck elsewhere, there’ll be no solace. 

She commends herself for her patience. 

In typical Satoru fashion, he continues testing it. 

“When was the last time you updated your passport?” 

“I’m not flying to her home country with you,” Shoko shuts down what he thought was a brilliant plan. “It’s just two weeks. Wait it out.” 

“What if we fly first class?” 

“Gojo.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s still too soon to meet her parents. It’s gotta happen eventually though, right?” 

Shoko doesn’t dignify this with a response. 

Satoru sinks into the cushions. Could there be anything worse than boredom? He has no missions lined up, you and Suguru are visiting family, and the first-years haven’t arrived yet. Pestering Utahime has lost its charm too. He could return home before the school year starts, but he’d rather have his fingers chopped off one by one than suffer that torture. 

“Hey, Shoko.” 

“Mm.” 

“Why aren’t you back home? I thought you got along with your parents.” 

“They’re both busy. I wouldn’t see them much.” 

Satoru doesn’t press the matter. 

It does intrigue him though — the relationship sorcerers have with their non-sorcerer families. Or, to be more specific, yours and Suguru’s familial dynamics intrigue him. Satoru can’t (and doesn’t bother trying) to care for the going-ons of anyone outside his small circle. This is more the hubris of a teenager who has been told he’s special his entire life than anything malicious. To Satoru, the world’s population might as well be stuck at three. 

Regardless, it’s an improvement.

Before meeting Suguru, those in his life consisted almost exclusively of suckups or stuckups. If he was unlucky, it’d be both, rolled into one terrible package. This was his reality. Jujutsu was his reality. He was the first to possess the Limitless and the Six Eyes in generations. The Gojo clan wouldn’t waste such an extraordinary opportunity. He was their pride and joy, personality aside. 

He was born to be the strongest. 

He can’t imagine any other life for himself. 

Then there’s you. 

He could see you leading a normal life. You wouldn’t be top of the class or a varsity athlete, but you’d be well-liked. Boys would nervously ask you out on dates and buy you roses with money they got from mowing lawns. You’d be the first one your friends would call when they experienced heartache. Maybe you’d go to college or land an entry-level job. Some co-worker with a decent sense of humor would win you over. Then you’d get married, rent a property, have a few kids… 

Satoru’s stomach twists. He grimaces, shifting his thoughts elsewhere. Namely, the question that’s bothered him for a while. 

Why did you become a jujutsu sorcerer? 

It was intentional. You chose to leave behind your home, your family. You knew the risks. How the body can break and ache in ways previously unrecorded. And what do you get in return for this thankless crusade? Sleepless nights where you tremble like a leaf beside Shoko? A nimbleness at dressing wounds that could only have come from years of practice? 

You’re open about everything until you aren’t. Fear, mortality, loss — when confronted by these unsightly truths, you retreat to someplace he can’t follow. 

Satoru can’t make sense of it. Neither can Suguru. Shoko says they shouldn’t press the matter. He wants to, though. He needs to know how you break. How else can he ensure that you never will? 

He thinks back to that humid August day. The binding vow eviscerated your insides, shards from fractured bones dug into your organs. Until that point in his life, Satoru prided himself on his immunity to fear. The pathogen never lasted long in his system. After all, fear is born from a lack of control. From having something to lose. If he couldn’t lose, what was there to be afraid of? 

It’s a question he’s been avoiding. 

(“If she dies,” he told Suguru, in a voice he barely recognized as his own, “They die too.”)

His mouth feels dry, his tongue heavy. He’ll drink that tea you’re fond of later to satiate his thirst. He wonders if you share its taste.

“What’re you reading, anyway?” he asks, hoping to take his mind elsewhere.

“Fruits Basket.” 

He laughs, incredulous. 

“Seriously? Didn’t take you for a shoujo type.” 

“I borrowed it from [First]. We’re doing a book exchange over break.” 

A book exchange… three words Satoru never thought would pique his curiosity. However, anything about you demands his undying attention. Even if it’s shoujo manga. Girls who read that genre do it to project onto the heroine, right? So the love interest must have appealed to you. What tropes do you like? Do you want a shy, sensitive soul who blushes and stutters in your presence? A misunderstood bad boy who’s only soft around you? The responsible student council president? 

Oh, he’ll have so much material to tease you with when you return. He can’t wait. 

“How do I enter this exclusive book club?” Satoru demands. 

“You don’t. I don’t trust your taste,” Shoko replies, much to his chagrin. “You can still read it, though. She has all of the volumes in her room.” 

… Your room? 

He grins from ear to ear.

Should he respect your privacy? Probably. Is he going to? Of course not. He never has, there’s no point in starting now. 

This trip of yours might yet redeem itself. 

-

Along the outskirts of Jujutsu High, Geto Suguru spots an odd woman. 

She’s wearing a baggy graphic tee, low-rise jeans, and gaudy bracelets on both arms. Her black hair is tossed up, thick strands sticking in every direction. Even from this distance, he can discern the silver glint of piercings that dot her ear like constellations. The stranger stands slouched, both her hands shoved into her pockets. For her to have gotten this far, she can’t be a civilian. Those unfamiliar with jujutsu can’t find this place. 

He stays still for a spell — watching and waiting. From this distance, she shouldn’t be able to sense his presence. It’s one of the few areas he excels at over Satoru. Satoru’s cursed energy is bright, blindingly so, a thunderous clap that can be heard for miles. Suguru prefers to keep his muted. It coils around his limbs like a serpent, never straying far. This is why you had no difficulty picking out Satoru’s stupefying presence on your first day, whereas he had to make himself known to you. 

Suguru’s lips quirk up. 

He was fated to meet you. 

“Hey! Kiddo!” A deep, somewhat raspy voice exclaims. He blinks rapidly, temporarily thrown off. “This ain’t an art gallery. What’s with the staring?” 

She noticed him? How? 

When the stranger starts slinking his way, he regains his composure. 

“I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable,” Suguru’s cadence flows smoother than a river. 

“Hah! ‘Uncomfortable?’ That’s a way of putting it,” she pokes the space beneath her emerald eyes twice. “Even now, I can feel ya picking me apart. Shit’s creepy.” 

His smile tightens. “I’ll be more mindful of my conduct in the future, then.” 

She waves him off. Her golden bracelets clink together as she does so, the sound grating his ears. 

“That’s a lie if I ever heard one. And I should know. Schemers excel at picking out their brothers in arms,” she juts her head up, giving the impression that she’s the one looking down on him, despite the slight height difference. 

“Anyhow, by the looks of it, you must be Sugu-kun.” 

… Did she just call him Sugu-kun? 

“What? Too soon* to be calling you that? Heh, heh…” 

Suguru’s smile tightens. “You can refer to me however you like, so long as I can return the favor.” 

She guffaws.

“Maaan, Goldie sure was gracious in her description of you,” the woman gives him a lopsided grin. “Name’s Akane. There — is the playing field leveled now?” 

“Ishimoto Akane?”

He doesn’t miss the way she winces as her surname is spoken aloud, rather pointedly at that. 

“Ah. S’pose I had that coming.” 

Suguru decides against prolonging her torment. He’s in a generous mood, it isn’t every day he has a chance to learn more about you. This is an opportunity he’ll take full advantage of. 

“And I presume 'Goldie' is [First]?” 

He makes a mental note to figure out the wordplay for your nickname later. 

“Full marks.”

Suguru hums, a sound indicating that he’s drifting deep into thought. 

You don’t mention your mentor often. When you do, it’s normally in the form of endearing (if not mildly concerning) anecdotes.

“She told me that natto is bits of caramel held together by melted marshmallows, like a Rice Krispy Treat. It… it was not like a Rice Krispy Treat…” 

“... For my twelfth birthday, she got me Pokemon Ruby. I remember crying because Roxeanne’s Nosepass took out my Torchic. My cursed energy spiked and the party had to end early…” 

“... Out of curiosity, I drank her stash of Georgia canned coffee. My heart rate was almost high enough to warrant a trip to the ER…” 

Getting anything else relating to her out of you was like trying to wring water from a rock. Suguru didn’t miss the wistful melancholy underpinning your stories. You recalled them with a far-off expression as if mourning that those days of whimsy were over. Initially, he considered it a consequence of growing up. Childhood idols rarely remain highly esteemed as the years pass and maturity accrues. 

His intuition argued that he should examine the issue closer.

(“I met her, y’know,” Satoru mentioned whilst he spun in a rolling chair ‘commandeered’ from Yaga. “Akane. Our girl’s mentor. Former mentor? Whatever the case is.” 

Suguru sat his pencil aside, any investment in his studies gone.

“When?” 

“Last March.” 

Suguru sighed. “And you didn’t bring this up earlier because…?” 

There’s a twinkle in his companion’s sunglasses-covered eyes.

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Satoru shrugged. 

Liar, Suguru thought, unamused by Satoru’s faux nonchalance. He must’ve had his reasons for neglecting to mention it for so long. Suguru figured your impending trip home had something to do with Satoru’s ‘miraculously’ cured amnesia. 

“What? Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”

The provocation failed to irk him. Instead, Suguru refocused the conversation.“Tell me your impression of her.”

Satoru stilled, threw his feet atop Suguru’s desk, and placed his hands on his neck. “About what you’d expect from a disgraced daughter of an influential clan. Bad-tempered, tattooed, pierced up… hah! Bet her old man would go into cardiac arrest if he saw her.” 

“Satoru,” he implored. 

“Fine, fine. So impatient,” The white-haired sorcerer complained. “I misread her. She got all mopey after she fessed up about Cursed Technique: Null. I wrote it off as envy. The student exceeding the master, or whatever.” 

Satoru remained silent for a moment. “Post Kaizu, though, I assume the feeling actually gnawing at her… ” 

Kaizu. 

Panicked phone calls. Satoru’s agitated exclamations. His horrified silence. Your breathing faded, theirs accelerated. You looked so small. So human. He scarcely believed the limp girl cradled in his arms just executed such a devastating maneuver. Your cursed energy had exceeded any output he’d felt from you before. It was too much, your body wasn’t ready to endure a spike like that. 

Suguru had never felt so distant from the title ‘strongest.’

At some point later on, in a hospital waiting room, Suguru posed a question. 

Satoru heard him yet offered no response.

“Who taught her how to do that?”

“... was guilt.”)

“You didn’t visit her.” 

Akane blinks. 

“Hah?” 

“You didn’t visit her,” Suguru repeats, his tone firmer. “[First]. Your student.” 

She exhales shakily. Suguru thinks she looks tired. 

“If you have something to say, just come out with it already.” 

He was prepared to wear her down for hours — this willing cooperation saves him time. Although, it doesn’t make navigating the volatile minefield that lies ahead any easier. He knows how to rein Satoru in when he’s going too far. He can fluster you without giving too much of himself away. After rescuing someone from a curse, he knows the exact pitch, timbre, and tempo necessary to pierce through their abject horror. He’s a virtuoso at playing people, a conductor hidden amidst the audience. 

Deceit. Misdirection. Coercion. 

His repertoire is expansive and ever-growing. 

From what he can see — what he can feel — the prodigal daughter before him boasts a similar discography. She returns his unflinching eye contact as if issuing a challenge. Daring him to use dubious methods that might work on anyone else. This obstinate resolve reminds him of you. Once you’ve determined your course, even he struggles to change the route.

He abandons all pretense. 

“You didn’t want her here,” he theorizes. Akane’s face reveals nothing. “You knew something like that was bound to happen.” 

Sorcerers aren’t only at war with curses. No, there’s an inner battle that must be fought as well. The recognition that the next assignment could be your last. And if it is, you won’t be commemorated by the masses; to them, you don’t exist. Your sacrifice will be known to a select few who mourn you, or  a few who don’t. Everything could go right. Everything could go wrong. Engaging in that high risk for such a low reward goes against one’s self-preservation instincts.

How each sorcerer handles this fight is unique to them. 

As for your strategy — you refuse to acknowledge this conflict exists. 

Paradoxically enough, that functions as your self-preservation. 

Akane smiles thinly. She’s almost his reflection, in that regard.

“Full marks.” 

-

Suguru idly observes as Satoru paces back and forth, his troubled figure illuminated by a row of vending machines. 

A nearby street lamp flickers. It’s late, but the local convenience stores glow with artificial light, tempting customers to come inside. Some are weary salarymen grabbing ready-made meals, others are middle schoolers clinking their change together, praying they can afford a sugary treat. The latest group cheers, indicating their triumph. 

The duo receives odd looks — thanks to their school uniforms, no doubt — not that they pay the judgment any mind. No one troubles them. Not even a wandering policeman, who, under normal circumstances, would scold minors out by themselves at night. 

Suguru theorizes that Satoru’s ominous aura is what subconsciously repels them. 

Earlier today, Suguru bid farewell to his parents and boarded a train for Tokyo. As nice as it was to spend time with his family, he’d been looking forward to reuniting with you and Satoru. He amassed quite the phone bill thanks to your frequent correspondence. Nonetheless, he carried the minor debt with pride; it’s a sign you often thought about him. He planned for Satoru to assume the debt by dangling the pictures you sent his way as ransom. 

His encounter with Ishimoto Akane grounded his soaring mood. This was made worse when he entered the dormitory, only to find a tight-lipped Shoko and agitated Satoru. 

Shoko remarked that unlike the two of them, she’d be handling things with ‘tact,’ and retired for the evening, not wanting to catch their ‘stupidity contagion.’ 

It’d been hours since then. That time stretch brought them closer to revealing the complete picture, but a few pieces remained missing or incomplete. 

The frenetic sorcerer stills and rummages around in his pocket.

Suguru takes the opportunity to break the silence. “I—” 

He cuts himself off as Satoru whips out a familiar-looking chapstick. The cutesy design befitting your aesthetic stands out like a sore thumb in Satoru’s large, calloused hands. 

“... Where did you get that?” 

“[First]’s room,” is Satoru’s response, spoken nonchalantly whilst applying it to his lips. “Why?” 

Suguru snorts. Sometimes Satoru’s ungodly strength blinds him to the fact that he’s still a teenage boy. 

“Won’t she notice it’s missing?” 

“I replaced it.” 

“Ah.”

“She has plenty more in the drawer beneath her vanity if you want one.” 

Suguru knows the exact spot Satoru’s referring to. They both helped you assemble it (Satoru got bored fifteen minutes in and fell asleep on your bed but still claims credit). 

After noting this suggestion, he asks, “Have you calmed down?” 

Satoru barks out a ‘hah!’ as if he’d just heard a hilarious joke. “Me? Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?” 

Suguru massages his temples, sensing the looming headache that awaits him. “Satoru…” 

“We could follow her residuals, you know,” Satoru suggests. He tips his sunglasses down, revealing eyes that gleam with predatory intent. “With the Six Eyes, it’d be a walk in the park.” 

“And then what?” 

“Oh, you know, chat about the weather, latest political scandals, that sort of thing.” 

“You can’t strong-arm yourself through everything in life, Satoru,” Suguru chastises. 

Satoru opens and closes his lips. He folds his arms, scrunches his eyebrows together, and rapidly taps his foot. The shift puts Suguru at ease. Satoru adopts this countenance on the rare occurrence he’s faced with a formidable threat. The serious, almost somber visage speaks to his ironclad resolve. Suguru may have told his companion that he can’t strong-arm himself through everything, but that’s a half-truth; the Gojo clan’s pride can do whatever he pleases. 

It’s consideration of the aftermath that Suguru wishes to instill in his companion. Tempering the arrogance of a God is no easy feat. 

“... She isn’t going anywhere,” Satoru declares, as if any other outcome was blasphemous. 

“She isn’t,” Suguru agrees. Then, he lowers his voice, adding, “We can’t disregard what Ishimoto-san is getting at, though.” 

“Simple — all our girl needs is a good ol’ fashioned intervention.” 

“An ‘intervention,’” Suguru deadpans. “Didn’t you already try that?” 

Satoru smiles in a way Suguru can only describe as dopey, reminiscing on the night you got ‘mad at him for wanting you to be mad at him.’ That’s how Suguru interpreted the detailed account Satoru gave the next morning, anyway. 

(“I wish she would’ve cried, just a little bit; it would’ve made her look extra cute,” Satoru cooed, to which Suguru shot him an exasperated look. “Oh, don’t act so high and mighty. You’d make her cry just so you could wipe her tears away.”)

Suguru shakes his head. “Here’s what I think — the self-sacrifice in and of itself isn’t the problem. Well, the main problem. There has to be a reason, something personal… identifying that takes priority.” 

A gust rips through the narrow street, howling as it terrorizes store signs and doors with weak hinges. The two strongest sorcerers remain oblivious to the drift. What occupies their mind is greater than any force of nature, insignificant or otherwise. They have the means to challenge natural phenomena itself. And they would, should they deem it an obstacle to their goals. This single-minded determination is what elevates them beyond the rest. 

“I guess the old man has a soft spot for us after all,” Satoru says, referring to Yaga, Suguru guesses.

Breathlessly, he chuckles. “Maybe.” 

Studying Satoru from his peripherals, he silently mulls over the far likelier reality—  

—that Yaga understands Satoru’s potential for saving this world is matched only by his capacity to condemn it. 

-

From a young age, Ieri Shoko found irony everywhere she looked.

It’s prevalent in the medical field she wishes to pursue. When stabbed, it’s better to leave the knife in than immediately pull it out. For an immune system to better defend itself from a virus, it must first be exposed to it in trace amounts. If an appendage becomes too infected, removing that piece of the body is better than keeping it whole. It was you who pointed out this theme extends into the world of jujutsu. 

“You’d think fighting to survive a curse instead of defeating it would be an okay alternative, right?” You had said. “But really… that just means someone else gets to foot the bill. All ‘cause you cheaped out.” 

She regrets not asking you to elaborate. At the time, the observation felt so personal, so intimately interwoven with who you are, that she thought it best to leave it alone. 

Watching you now, lounging on the swing beside her, she’s determined not to repeat her previous mistake. 

“Tired?” 

“Well, yeah,” you laugh. It sounds off. “I wasn’t meant for long flights. It takes everything out of me, y’know?” 

Shoko unsuccessfully digs around her pocket for a lighter. The search ceases when she recalls its inopportune location — left behind in her dorm room in the rush to be the one who reaches you first. Not sure what else to do with her hands, she folds them onto her lap. Meanwhile, you pick at a stray thread on your jeans. 

“I didn’t mean from traveling,” she clarifies. 

“Hm?” 

“How many curses did you exorcise back home?” 

Your fingers go still.

“I dunno… a few?” You shrug, stuffing your hands in your pockets. “If I happen across them, I’m not gonna just let them run amuck. That’d be irresponsible.” 

Your nonchalance comes across as forced. You may be keeping your words lighthearted, but she can tell you’ve dialed up your senses, monitoring her closely. It reminds her of a cornered mouse. It’s then that any lingering doubt over her choices leading up to this moment dispels. Resolve strengthened, she swears to make as much progress as she possible before those two catch on. She felt a bit bad lying about your flight’s time, but felt the situation justified the call. 

“It feels different when they’re close to home, doesn’t it?” 

Shoko’s eyes scan over the lively park before them. There’s a group of children playing with one another, some scouring the grass for bugs and others playing tag. Their guardians watch from a distance, chatting amongst themselves, likely discussing the upcoming poor weather or latest neighborhood scandals. Young couples walk hand in hand along the pathways, cheeks flushed from the joy of experiencing their first love. 

“Encountering a curse is draining. Fighting them, even more so. But when they’re on a street you walk every day, or a few blocks over from your house, you can’t help but start thinking. ‘What if I hadn’t come this way? Would it have hurt people I know? People I love and care about?’”

Her eyes find yours. “‘What if it killed them?’”

You look like you’re going to be sick. 

She ignores how your expression contorts her stomach and continues. “Sorcerers are in the minority, it’s true. So… fighting to survive isn’t selfish. It’s strategic.”

In the distance, the rough silhouette of two individuals grows clearer. The spotlight she commandeered grows fainter with their every step. In what remains of the fading limelight, she considers you. The CC cream that conceals the worst of your exhaustion, how your pupils dilate from high caffeine intake, then your fingers. The keys that when steepled just so, open the future for others at the cost of permanently locking yours. 

She reaches over and gently squeezes your hand. 

“Remember — we won’t be much help to anyone if we’re six feet under. So let’s aim to stay above ground.” 

-

The evening sun sinks into the horizon, demanding acknowledgment in its final moments by dousing all in a fiery hue. 

Your uniform absorbs the brunt of this last stand. The dark fabric devours the waning sunlight, heating you from head to toe. It didn’t fully occur to you that you were back when you walked through the torii gates lining the mountainous path. Nor when you unpacked in your dorm, stuffing your passport away until your next break, where it’ll serve you faithfully again. 

Instead, it was the simple act of putting your uniform on again that made home seem far, far away. 

You’d gotten used to your clothes smelling like your mother’s preferred detergent. It’s a brand you couldn’t find in Japan, sold exclusively in your home country. You wondered what meal your parents were having when you straightened out your collar. If your neighbor ever fixed that rumble their old sedan huffed out as you slipped into your tights. Whether your grandpa knew you’d landed safely when you brushed lint off your skirt. 

The campus atmosphere is serene. Tengen’s barrier is a bulwark against curses, insulating you from any potential threats. Without this assurance, some part of you was always on the defensive, anticipating anything when you slept in your childhood bedroom. It siphoned away your vitality, just like Shoko pointed out. 

You sniffle and kick a rock aside. 

How does it always end up like this?

First Akane, now Shoko, you hug yourself. I just want to protect others. What’s so wrong with that? If I don’t, then who will?

You pause abruptly. 

When Akane began mentoring you, the world as you knew it changed. Suddenly, you were given knowledge no one else was privy to, for they lacked the tools to comprehend it. You’d seen those ‘creatures’, but it was Akane that explained their malevolent nature. What they could do, the pain they inflicted, how defenseless the population at large was against them. 

The shadow that this monstrous threat cast could never be outshone by light. The best you could do was create safe pockets the size of pins in the darkness. That was the extent of your hope, the most bitter pill you’ve ever swallowed.

The lingering specter of Shoko’s reassuring touch prickles along your hand. 

It’s easy to forget you’re not alone anymore after fighting by yourself for so long. 

-

Eventually, you happen upon a clearing near the school’s main grounds. 

The steep inclines surround a sizable outdoor track. This area is known colloquially as the school’s training grounds. You prefer to train in a more secluded, wooded area, but not everyone shares your enthusiasm for subtlety. Namely, the two prodigies who have turned the field into a colosseum that’d rival the battles of ancient Rome. 

You take a seat on the grassy hill and watch what unfolds. 

Your eyes can scarcely follow the blows Suguru and Satoru exchange. Their sparring sessions are unreal — blurring the very fabric of reality. Somehow, they manage all this without using cursed energy. The spectacle you’re witnessing is simply hand-to-hand combat. It’s like watching a film with skipping frames. In a matter of seconds, they can travel a hundred meters and return to their original position. Your brain struggles to process the stimuli your senses are feeding it. 

They were already strong when you met them. But now? The nomenclature doesn’t exist to properly classify them. 

And in the future… 

There’s no telling what highs they’ll reach or the ceilings they’ll shatter. 

Their light is the most dazzling you’ve ever seen.

Within a few minutes, they conclude their training session. Satoru instantly beelines toward you, whereas Suguru cycles through stretches. There’s not even a single drop of sweat on Satoru’s body as he plops to your right. He’s wearing his signature sunglasses, despite the night's looming shadow. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep or something?” Satoru asks. “It’s past your bedtime.”

You punch him lightly on the shoulder. He yelps out an exaggerated ‘ouch!’ rubbing the area to soothe the nonexistent wound. 

Suguru approaches at a far more leisurely pace, sending a wave that you return in kind. 

Satoru, not one to be forgotten, yells out, “Be careful, Suguru! She’s violent!” 

“Only against those who deserve it,” Suguru replies.

Fondness blossoms inside your chest as you laugh. You’d forgotten how simple life feels around them. It’s as if when the three of you are together, you’re swallowed by a pocket dimension, isolated from everyone and everything. Permanently inhabiting this utopia is a temptation. 

Satoru places his hands behind his head and lays onto the ground. “Here I am, potentially out of commission forever, without a single ounce of sympathy to show for it.” 

“We could always settle in court,” you offer. 

Suguru stands before you, hands on his hips. “Or he could finally figure out how to use reverse cursed technique.” 

At this, Satoru shoots back up, his sunglasses falling askew. “Hah? Last I recall, you gave yourself a headache giving it a go. At least I’m not that bad.” 

“Hurdles are necessary to improve. Without any, how do you know you’re truly making progress?” 

Satoru gives him a grossed-out look. “All this philosophizing is gonna turn your hair gray before you hit twenty.” 

“That’s rich, coming from the guy whose hair is already white,” You point out. “What’s that say about you?” 

Suguru muffles his laughter behind his hand. 

Satoru’s quick to overcome his incredulity. “It says that I’m going to spoil the next volume of Inuyasha. Sesshomaru—” 

You cover your ears and sprint off. “Can’t hear you, can’t hear you, can’t hear you…!” 

He chases after you, periodically shouting the names of the main characters right when you think he’s finished. You do your best to block out his voice, running like your life depends on it. He’s hot on your heels, cackling at your expense. After a stretch of silence, you uncover your ears, hesitantly turning around to check if he’s finished his torture. 

You meet Satoru’s gaze. His lips are parted, his eyebrows slightly raised. Your reflection in his dark lenses appears equally perplexed. He straightens his sunglasses and regards you with an unreadable expression. 

“... You’ve gotten faster.” 

The comment is so quiet, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. 

“Hm?” 

“Nothing,” he dismisses, waving you off. “You shoujo-loving types sure take this stuff seriously. It’s almost cultish.” 

“I don’t wanna hear that from the guy who references Digimon like it’s some sorta scripture!” 

“Honda Tohru is a lame heroine.” 

You audibly gasp. “Wh— you take that back!” 

And so it’s your turn to chase Satoru, who, for reasons unknown, is oddly knowledgeable regarding Fruits Basket. 

-

“Could you guys be honest with me about something?” 

“All depends.” 

“Of course.” 

Satoru and Suguru’s responses come out simultaneously, the contents offering little reassurance. You’re not sure what you expected. Nonetheless, you press past the gnawing discomfort, your conversation with Shoko a fresh memory. 

“Did Akane stop by while I was gone?” 

You scrutinize their countenances for involuntary reactions that might betray their inner thoughts. You begin with Satoru, who was in the middle of cleaning his sunglasses when you posed the question. His eyes, which normally brim with mischief, have an eerie calmness about them; like sheets of ice that were once choppy waters. He smiles softly and slips his lenses back into place, undoubtedly aware of the intent behind your stare. 

Then there’s Suguru. He hums, as if finding your inquiry unexpected and not an inevitable point of contention. He’s a more challenging puzzle to decipher than Satoru. With the latter, you can roughly gauge the greater picture, blurry and incomplete as it may be. Suguru, on the other hand, hasn’t given you enough pieces to attempt a solution. 

Satoru continues mulling over your question while Suguru responds, “Is that what’s been worrying you lately?” 

So they picked up on it too, you think. 

Frowning, you shift in your seat. Blades of grass tickle your thighs and you push your skirt down. 

“Er… not that, specifically,” you admit. You feel like you’re surrounded by walls that know just how far to close in to give the impression you might be crushed. “I just… I’ve been thinking. About why I’m here— what I’ll go on to do. And, well…” 

Much to their surprise, you stand, squeeze your eyes shut, and bow ninety degrees. 

“For so long, I’ve carried this burden. The truth is, when I first learned about Null, I was relieved. I’d always have something to rely on in the worst-case scenario. But at the same time… that meant not using it could also be a mistake. You have no idea how much that scared me.” 

You curl your hands up into fists. “I don’t want to think that way anymore. I see it now — have for a while, actually — strength I couldn’t even imagine before. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m in your care. If it’s alright, I want to rely on others, starting with you two.” 

Your heart pounds wildly in the silence that follows. 

Maybe this is selfish too, you think. But I don’t want to be alone anymore. 

You hear Suguru speak your name. It isn’t until he repeats it, his tone kind yet firm, that you straighten yourself and face him. 

Satoru stands further back, scratching his neck. Much to your confusion, a red flush has risen to his cheeks, extending up to his ears. Suguru corrects your staring by taking your face in his hands and redirecting your attention to him. Warmth envelops you. Your faces are inches apart, but somehow, the distance feels nonexistent, like he’s peering into your mind unhindered. 

“Surely, you can dream bigger than that,” Suguru chastises.

“... Eh?” 

“Do you think so little of us?” Satoru grumbles. It almost sounds like he’s pouting. Was he not listening to anything you just said? The sincerity behind your every word? Why are they both acting like you insulted them? 

“Eh?!” 

“I’m glad you’ve come to this realization, but… you don’t have to rely on anyone else. Just us,” Suguru takes a step back, though he keeps one hand cupping your cheek. You feel lightheaded. “After all…” 

“... We’re the strongest.” 

notes:

*this pun actually works decently in english ?? but akane is making a reference to how suguru sounds phonetically similar to すぐ, or sugu, which means 'soon.'

[faerygrant]

knee socks - carmen berzatto x waitress reader

summary: four discoveries come about your and carmens secret relationship; he’s very into knee socks, you’re acquainted with a staff member he has a tricky relationship with, he can be possessive and weirdly enough he likes being called daddy?

You’d stayed back last night to help Carmen, despite the raging headache that had caused you to have to take a 30 minute break from waiting tables just to rest your head. Carmen appreciated that, and was not shy in showing you. Once he’d insured everyone had gone home for the night, doors locked and safety measures taken care of, he had come into the office and kissed you softly, before walking you to your apartment. Where things had escalated, resulting in you falling asleep stuffed and sated and Carmy going home with a pair of your panties.

Today however you felt refreshed, you’d woken up at the crack of dawn, showered, threw on your uniform and decided you’d wear a pair of knee socks due to the cold fall weather. You arrived to the usual chaos of The bear, Tina and Sydney getting started on prep, Marcus unloading the batter he’d made the night before and Richie barking orders at your fellow waitstaff about today’s schedule. Carmy however wasn’t anywhere to be seen, so you assumed he was in his office going over stock orders or doing payroll.

“Hey, you look pretty good this morning princess” Rich or Richie to everyone else, whispers into your ears.

“Don’t be gross Rich.” You mumble, grabbing your apron and tying it around your waist as he mockingly smiled back at you.

“Damn can’t even give out compliments anymore.” He throws his hands up in mock self defence.

Your and Richie’s relationship was simple, he was a longtime friend of your brothers and had always been mockingly flirty and playful with you, occasionally you’d reciprocate the flirtyness but it was all in good fun. Carmy however hated it, so much so that he’d ensure he did his best to put a distance between you two most of the time.

As the day went on Carmen would make subtle appearances from the office, coming into the kitchen to help Sydney with recipes she was working on, answering some of Tina’s questions, giving Marcus the green-light on some new dessert ideas, the works. But what you noticed from these appearances were the glances he kept making towards you, or specifically towards your legs. Until it finally hit you, it was the knee socks.

-

Carmen couldn’t think straight with the way you were just casually waiting tables while looking like a goddess. Your uniform clung so nicely to your body, your smile ever so bright and those god damned knee socks. He was convinced you were trying to send him into cardiac arrest. He’d never even known he had a thing for those until today and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste.

carmen 🐻

You busy right now?

you

Kinda, why?

carmen 🐻

Need your help in the office, now.

you

Alright, coming

-

"Hi" you smiled shyly, walking up to his desk and taking a seat on one of the chairs opposite his desk.

"Come 'ere " he says lowly, beckoning you forward with two fingers. You slowly get out of the chair and make your way behind the desk to his side.

"Hi, again" you say as you look down at him, with a sweet smile on your face.

"Hey, feelin' any better, since last night?" He questions as he turns his chair to face you and pulls you in between his legs, his hands holding your hips in place.

"Y-yeah a little, thank you by the way" you reply softly, flustered by the touch he was so lovingly giving you.

"Your welcome, just wanted to make sure you were alright, it was so worth it" he smiled as his hands began to roam, up and down your hips.

"Wh- why was it worth it?" You reply, voice barely above a whisper, as you look down at him though your lashes.

"I got to kiss you, touch you, and keep your panties" he smirked at the last part, knowing it was going to annoy you.

"Thanks for reminding me to kick you for that by the way." You playfully swat his shoulder and he fakes a pout. You began laughing at him.

"What?" He asks, curiously.

"Nothing" you smile as you lift your hands to play with his hair.

"No tell me" he insists, as he squeezes your hips and pulls you down, to straddle him.

"Mmm, it's just I didn't expect you to be such a softie" you smile as you move down on him a little harder, to feel his crotch.

"Of fuck- I" he tries talking but the feeling of you pressed down against him is too much.

"Fuck-“ he says your name “you're gonna kill me" he replies as he pushes his hips against you and you feel his hard on.

“These knee socks have been killing me all day, did you wear em just f’me?” He grunts the last part.

“I did, wanted to impress you.” You smile, wiggling into him.

“It worked, I’m fuckin impressed and so hard f’you.” He smiles into a kiss he plants on your lips.

"I want you now, please daddy" you weren't sure where the 'daddy' came from, but honestly you didn’t care at this point, you needed him. His eyes widen and you're pretty sure you feel him get even harder once the word leaves your mouth.

"I'm your daddy?" He questions you with a smirk on his face.

"Ye-yeah, daddy" you whispered as you continue to grind down on him.

"That's right, I'm your daddy, keep grinding on your daddy till you cum" he groans, face all red.

"Mmmm" you whisper against his neck as you continue. Just as you feel him moving to reposition you, the phone in his office begins to ring. You look up at him and he shakes his head.

"Leave it, keep goin" he groans as he pulls you down, once more. You're so close to your climax when the phone rings again.

"Mmm, just answer it" you groan as you attempt to get off him, he however pulls you back down and answers the phone.

"What?"

"Ok, and?"

"Fine"

"I'll send her in"

He slams the phone back down and kisses you hungrily once more. You oblige and bring your hands up to his hair.

"Who was it?" You ask, pulling back from the kiss.

"Dumbass Richie, he wants to see you, claims one the regulars is here and only you can help him service them" he spits, you can tell he’s annoyed by Richie’s interruption.

"Rich’s always been quite the mood stealer" you smile, as he kisses your neck lightly.

"Rich?" He questions as he pulls back from your neck and looks up at you.

"Yeah, Rich?" You reply confused, had you said the wrong thing?

"Why the fuck, do you call him that?" He asks angrily, as he lets go of your waist. Alright so Carmy’s moods did always change quickly, noted.

"He's a family friend, I've known him since I was like 18 he's like a brother to me, at-least that's how I feel about him." You reply, whilst putting his hands back on your waist.

"Alright then, Good" he says refusing to smile.

"Why the long face, hmmm?" You question as you smile at him.

"I don't want anyone else to have you, I'm territorial, possessive, I don't know call it what you want but you're mine now and I don't need anyone getting in the way of that" he smirks.

"Mmmm, I just loveeee being owned by men, it's so empowering" you say sarcastically.

"I don't mean it in that way, you know that" says Carmy quickly, afraid you misunderstood him.

"I'm just fucking with you, and this may sound a bit anti-feminist, but I like the thought of belonging to you" you whisper into his ear, leaving him groaning.

"Alright we'll, Rich’s waiting for me, bye Carmy" you say as you try to get off of him. His grip however is too strong and he manages to pull you back down.

"I want to take you out for dinner tomorrow night, somewhere nice but chill ,not too fancy." He says shyly.

"I- I would love too, also not too fancy? this doesn't sound like Michelin star chef Carmen Berzatto" you joke, and he simply smiles at you. He finally let's you out of his grip and you give him a sweet peck, before making your way to the door. Before you can leave the office he calls out to you.

"Wear something pretty ok?"

You turn around and smile at him before replying with poise, "only for daddy"

[heqvenlymoons]

That One, I Want That One

Based on @fleursroses 's incorrect quote! <3

This is being posted as a oneshot on both my AO3 account and here on tumblr for now but I'm seriously considering turning it into a multi-chaptered fic because how well it was received. Someone said it had rom com potential and I can see it 😭

Daminette One Shot | Crack Fic | AO3

Damian tugged on the collar of his great dane, Titus, trying to get away from his imbecile brothers. 

It was a futile endeavour, as his brothers merely sped up their walking pace, talking over one another. 

“Come on, Dami! We just wanna know,” Richard— Grayson, because he was currently being a nuisance— whined. 

Todd scoffed, waving around the toy Nerf gun he insisted on bringing. “You know what? The brat’s probably better off without a wife, god forbid whoever gets stuck with him forever. I bet you, the little shit’s gonna be the one blackmailing someone into being his wife if he sees fit.” 

“Fuck you, Todd.” Damian’s fingers itched to grab his katana and slit it over his idiotic brother’s throat but at last, his father and pseudo grandfather figure, Alfred, had confiscated the knives he tried to sneak out on their business trip to Paris. 

Drake sipped on his coffee, his head bobbing up and down as he struggled to stay awake, even as he mumbled an incoherent, “You’re never going to get an answer if you aggravate him like that, Jay. Although I’d still like to know as well.” 

He hadn’t finished his sentence when he stumbled into a nearby pedestrian, almost kissing the ground had Todd not grabbed him by the collar at the last second.

During the mishap, the coffee cup Drake was holding spilled onto the floor, seeping into the ground as he stared at it with mournful eyes. “My coffee!” 

Todd rolled his eyes, letting go of the sleep-deprived Drake’s collar with an unsympathetic pat on the shoulder.

Damian’s lips curved up to a smirk. Perhaps that would keep Drake quiet for a few minutes as he mourned his spilled coffee. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop Grayson or Todd from their irritating line of questioning his so-called ‘love life’. 

Damian glared when Grayson pulled out the puppy doll eyes, accompanied by his repeated question, “Come on, please? Just answer the question— what’s your ideal type?” 

“Repeating the question with that pathetic expression of yours does not make me any more inclined to answer your question.” Damian spotted a bakery up ahead and approached it, ignoring Grayson’s pout. 

Perhaps his dingbat brothers would behave themselves in an embellishment full of people, although that would be wishful thinking on his part. 

His brothers, of course, followed him and continued to push their relentless questions onto him 

Todd grabbed his arm, stopping him, a glint of glee in his eyes, no doubt finding amusement in his current predicament. “You know, we’re not going to stop bothering you until you tell us.” 

Damian’s brows furrowed in annoyance, knowing full well from experience that his brothers would not stop poking and prodding until he did what they wanted. 

Right now, they wanted to know his ideal type, and they claimed his answer was to sedate their ever-growing ‘curiosity’ when he knew they wanted to utilize the information to set him up with someone. 

He scowled, making his decision. He would tell them only to make them stop badgering him about the inane question but that didn’t mean he was open to the idea of a relationship with someone they chose for him 

“Fine. My future partner must be brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized. You imbeciles better not utilize this information to set me up with someone or I will stab you.” He hissed, sending them his most intimidating glare for good measure. 

Todd dared to smirk at him. “Not likely, Demon Spawn. And even if we did, you won’t stab us. You’re all bark and no bite.” 

In response, Damian kicked him in the knee, making the older double over with a grunt. 

Before he could continue his assault, Grayson dragged him away, Todd spitting curses from where he lay on the ground in a starfish position, the Nerf gun on the ground beside him. 

Grayson was already wearing the contemplative expression he had on whenever he was about to do something stupid. “Okay~ that’s enough, little D. Back to what we were discussing, your future girlfriend has to be brave, strong, and smart, you say?” 

Damian gritted his teeth. “You are paraphrasing at best but I assume you already got the general idea because I am not going to repeat myself for your benefit.” 

He turned and before he could turn the door handle of the bakery to continue his dramatic exit (or in this case, dramatic entry), the door flew open and it would’ve hit him in the face had it not been for his quick reflexes.

The scowl reappeared on his face and he turned back to reprimand the person who dared try to attack him with a door to see a girl about his age, shuffling past his bewildered brothers in a hurry. 

Damian blinked, watching as the girl with raven-haired pigtails promptly tripped over nothing, crashing into the pole, the box she was holding fell from her hands and macaroons came tumbling out. 

He watched with interest as the girl mumbled out apologies to the inanimate object, picking up the fallen macaroons from the ground while she did and putting them back in the box. 

Snapping out of his daze, he handed Titus’s leash to Grayson before moving to help the girl, grabbing the remains of the macaroons from the ground and placing them in a neat row in the box.

He held out a hand for the girl to take, which she accepted with a grateful look and he pulled her to her feet. 

Getting a good look at her face, he was filled with a fluttering sensation in his stomach and he ignored it, thinking he must be coming down with a stomach bug. “Are you alright? That was quite a fall.”

Her bluebell eyes were blown wide, staring into his green ones with surprise. She broke the stare first, shaking her head before responding, “I’m fine! Thank you for your help, I’m sorry you had to see that.”

Her phone dinged and she yelped. “I’m sorry but I’m already late, see you around, mysterious handsome but kind person!”  

He opened his mouth to respond but she had already sped away, only catching sight of her red face as she turned.

His face heated as his mind caught up with her words. The girl was definitely something… 

He felt an arm going around his shoulders and he didn’t react, still staring in the direction the girl took off. 

“So, didn’t know Demon Spawn had it in him to talk to a pretty girl without scowling,” Todd drawled, the beginning of a teasing expression appearing on his face when he noticed the dazed look his youngest brother was sporting. 

Damian shoved him away, looking distracted.

Drake shook his head, mumbling, “I must be hallucinating, Demon Spawn would never willingly talk to someone, much less a girl.” 

“That one. I want that one.” Damian declared, unknowingly sending his adopted brothers into cardiac arrest at the words that fell out of his mouth. 

Grayson looked torn between looking wary and gleeful. “Uh… what do you mean by ‘that one’, little D?” 

Damian didn’t look at him as he pointed in the direction the girl ran off. “Her.” 

Todd’s jaws gaped like a fish, for once, speechless. 

Drake in his sleep-deprived state can only dumbly respond, “That’s not how it works, Damian. You can’t just go around adopting people.”

Damian finally dragged his gaze away from the direction the girl had long run off in, glaring at his brothers with his cheeks blazing red. “Not adoption, you imbecile.”

Not giving them the time to respond, he continued, a look of stress crossing his expression before he willed it away. “You lot have to keep Father from adopting her, it would cause complications.”

Grayson hummed. “She does meet the criteria, black hair and blue eyes.”

Todd seemed to have unfrozen, shaking his head in denial. “Wait wait wait, just wait a second. You’re saying, she’s your ideal type? You literally met her 5 minutes ago! I thought you said your future partner must be and I quote ‘brave, strong, intelligent, successful and organized’?” 

He prattled on, not paying attention to how Titus had taken to getting slobber all over his shoes. “No offence to her but she tripped over air and crashed into the poll in front of her. The clumsy behaviour caught your eye of all things? Are you sure you haven’t been abducted by aliens?” 

Damian glared, the red not receding from his face. He rounded on Drake. “Do a full background check on her, it is necessary for me to know everything about her if she were to be my partner.”

He paused, scowling. “Actually, I better do this myself. I need to know everything about her, it is better if you imbeciles stay as far away from her as possible. She does not need you all to monopolize her time.” 

He grabbed Titus’s leash from Grayson and headed in the direction of Le Grand Paris to do just that, leaving behind his shell-shocked brothers. 

Jason turned to his brothers, looking amused now that he had gotten over his shock. “So, who’s gonna tell him that stalking is not the right way to woo a girl?” 

[loveshotzz]

All I Really Want Is You

older!neighbor!widower! steve x fem!reader chap nine/ten - a slow burn series of blurbs - updated every wednesday

Ask Me What I’m Thinking About

summary: Baseball can be a dirty game.

wc: 8.3k

warnings: 18+ some drinking, semi public fooling around (in a skybox), steve gets a little too worked up teaching you the rules of the game😏 (slight daddy kink)

authors note: I can’t believe we’re at the second to last chapter 🥺 thank you to everyone who’s been reading and all your sweet words this whole series, you guys really are the best 🧡

🌇 <- chapter eight

The Masterlist / The Playlist / The Tune:

The kiss lingered on your lips for days after the Fourth of July. A week at work lost in daydreams about the man that tasted like lemonade and stole your breath under fireworks at the lake. Fingertips trace the places graced by his lips to try and keep the feel of them fresh in your mind, impatiently counting down the days till you see him again.

You tug at the bottom hem of your sundress standing at Steve’s front door. It’s shorter than you’re used to, and the shade of red it was could never be found in your wardrobe until earlier this week. You’d fallen victim to an after work shopping trip with a coworker who had persuasive opinions that had you feeling confident when you looked in the long mirror of the fitting room. Her words ringing in your head like a mantra as you take a deep breath before knocking. Somersaults and cartwheels in your stomach, you wonder if it will always feel like the first time.

Bandit’s loud bark makes your cheeks push up in the kind of smile you usually only give to Steve. The sound of  long nails scraping excitedly on the other side of the door followed by his owner's deep bellow of his name only make it grow more. Butterflies take flight when you hear the click of the lock, another tug and a second deep breath.

“Bandit stop- Hey - oh wow, baby.” Standing there with the door half open, Steve drinks you in with hungry eyes. They roam up the expanse of your thighs, licking his lips when he sees how dangerous a strong breeze can be. “You look - wow, you look beautiful.”

It feels like summer heat on your cheeks, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to beam. Maybe Jenny from work was right. Your eyes are just as greedy as his when you notice the tight fit of his jeans, and the white cubs jersey with the top two buttons undone. It makes his tan darker, along with the crisp tank top underneath. The silver chain around his neck catches in the sun from its place of the soft patch of chest hair that you’re realizing is always on display. His feet are bare and it makes you shift from side to side like it’s  something intimate.

“You look very easy on the eyes yourself Mr. Harrington.” You giggle and it makes him blush a furious red all the way to the tips of his ears.

Bandit whines impatiently behind Steve, his nails tapping against the wood floor. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’s coming in, calm down.” He opens the door a little more, turning around with one hand on the handle to usher the dog back to let you in. Your eyes catch his last name patched onto the back of his jersey like it's official. The realization that it probably is intimidates you.

It almost smells like the last time you were here, the rich cedar undertones are met with a hint of Bandit when you cross the threshold. He gives you a loud excited bark for good measure before his owner cuts him loose, shutting the door behind you. Steve doesn’t even try to stop him from jumping when you welcome him with open arms and a high pitched “hiii, handsome!”

Steve rolls his eyes dramatically when Bandit whines licking your face, but the smile he can’t fight gives him away.

“Alright, that’s enough. I didn’t even get my kiss yet buddy.” Steve chuckles, snapping his fingers making Bandit fall back on all fours in a huff.

I didn’t even get my kiss yet.

The words make your breath catch in your throat, Steve was going to kiss you again. He was just going to do that now, whenever he wants, and you’re gonna let him.

“Gettin’ jealous or somethin’ Steve?” You tease trying to hide the way he sets your skin on fire when his darkened eyes look at you like that.

“What if I am?” His voice drops to something new, something dirtier and it makes your thighs clench. 

One of his hands finds its way to where your dress sinches and smooths out at your waist, while the other rests against the wood behind you. He takes the few steps that have your back pressing against the door, fingers squeezing softly at your side before he reaches up to cup your cheek in the warmth of his palm. Looking down over the sharp line of his nose, the pad of his thumb traces the sticky silk of your glossed bottom lip. He wonders what flavor it is today, he can’t wait to find out.

“I’d tell you to do something about it then.” It’s a little shy the way it comes out just above a whisper, meeting his gaze from under your lashes.

His nose brushes with yours, the mint from his toothpaste fanning cool against your cheeks. Needy fingers find their way to his belt loops giving him a gentle tug closer and it makes him grin, you let his lips be a phantom against yours, impatience winning when you pull him in. 

It’s gentle at first and it feels like fireworks at the lake, like the butterflies from your first date. It’s when your hands slide up his chest and wrap around his neck that he presses his weight against you. His thumb pulls at your chin begging you to open up for him while his knee pushes its way between your legs. A week of being kept apart with nothing but thoughts of this has your tongues meeting greedy in the middle when you get lost in it. Spoiled with it. Noses press against cheeks and he can taste the tangerine that coats your lips in a sticky sweet mess. 

He groans when you bite at his bottom lip, thick eyebrows marrying in the middle when he kisses you harder, his knee getting a little bolder, getting closer. He can feel the heat that radiates from between your thighs like this and he curses at how short your dress is. Were you trying to kill him? Irrational jealousy pangs in his chest at all the guys that’ll get to look at you like this today. Guys your age. 

Bandit barks at something he sees outside making you both jump apart. Even with kiss bitten lips and a little dizzy from the lack of oxygen, you already miss him. He laughs quietly, pressing his forehead with yours the golden specs in his mossy eyes gleam feeling like a teenager again. All he wants to do is kiss you.

“I’ve been thinking about doing that all week if I’m being honest.” Steve confesses, long fingers finding yours, lacing them together like he needs you.

“I was terrible at my job this week, and it was definitely your fault.” You grin looking up at him like you love it.

The two of you stand there for a minute letting your eyes take in features that had started to soften in your memories. He smiles before bumping his nose with yours one more time, stealing a quick peck pulling away before you have a chance to kiss back smirking at your small pout.

“Let me get my shoes on and we’ll get out of here. We’ll get some dogs at Wrigley.” Steve calls over his shoulder, ruffling Bandit’s head on his way up the stairs.

“Dogs?” You snort under your breath so he can’t hear, your fingers finding their way back to Bandits fur scratching him behind his ears. You swear he’s smiling when he pants looking up at you with big friendly eyes.

You gaze towards his kitchen as you try to catch the breath he took with him up to his room, the memory of your almost first kiss feels like a lifetime ago. It’s not long before Bandit takes advantage of Steve’s absence, snorting playfully before he trots to the living room. Long nails click against the wood floors when he comes back making your heart swell when the stupid dancing banana you won at the block party sits in his mouth. Its stitched eye is already half gone, and an arm just barely hanging on.

“This your banana, cute guy?” You coo with a sweet smile, reaching out to accept his invitation to play tug of war with the plush toy.

You’re a mess of giggles when he starts ‘growling’ at you and trying to rip it from your grasp, pulling you forward every so often when he pushes back on his paws for an extra hard tug. Too lost in your own world, you don’t notice Steve watching from the top of the staircase. The necklace he bought last week burns a hole in his pocket, especially seeing you like this. He knows he’s already in love and it makes him want to laugh. Classic Steve. The hushed conversation he had with Eddie on the phone in his room lights a fire inside him. 

“It’s a necklace, it’s not a ring Steve. I stopped waiting around for the ‘right’ time and now I’m tryna start a family with the love of my life. What sign are you looking for, big guy? She’s seen your darkest parts and she’s downstairs waiting for you.”

You looked too pretty in that dress not to be his.

You finally get the toy away from Bandit, throwing it far enough for his paws to slide in place for a second before he takes off after it. Too busy laughing at the way he shakes the toy from side to side when he finally gets it between his teeth, you don’t hear Steve come up behind you. The fresh spice of his cologne hitting your nose gives him away first, the big hands that grab at your waist to pull you against his chest, the second.

“Missed me?” He teases, pressing a kiss behind your ear that makes you shiver. He likes that he can do that.

“Not really, I was having a pretty good time with Bandit actually.” He can’t see your shit eating grin, but he knows it's there.

“Not even a little bit?” He presses with a smirk in his voice, his lips ghosting against the exposed skin of your shoulder. You can’t help but tilt your head, giving him more to kiss. 

“Maybe,” You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, lashes fluttering when there’s a gentle nip at the dip of your neck. “Maybe a little bit.”

Steve smiles against your skin, humming in approval at your admission keeping you close for a few more minutes, and you realize you’d be more than happy to just do this the rest of the day. 

“Before we head out, I uh - “ He clears his throat, going a little stiff against your back as he starts digging in his pocket, “I got you something.”

You feel the way his hands shake, and it makes you want to turn around but the grip on your hip only tightens to keep you in place. 

“It’s easier to give it to you like this.” He mumbles, giving you a reassuring squeeze, your heart thumps wildly in your chest. 

“Steve what are you -“ Your sentence dies on your tongue when you feel something dainty and cold wrap around your neck. Your fingers reach up instinctively and the tips of them meet the smoothness of a stone that dangles at the end of it. The necklace.

“I couldn’t help myself, I hope it’s o - you just said you liked it and -“ Steve’s a mess of nerves behind you while you look down, fingers toying with the stone, awestruck at the gesture.  “If you think it’s weird I can -“

Turning around you cut him off with your lips, tangerine gloss in the form of appreciation makes him smile into the kiss. You keep it short this time, pulling away no matter how much your body screams for more. You start to think you’ll never have enough. Is this what it’s like to be in love?

“Steve, I love it” You whisper rolling back on your heels, your fingers already obsessed with touching the stone as you look up at him through your lashes. “Thank you.” 

His cheeks turn to cherry blossoms, all the tense muscles in his shoulders relaxing, Eddie was right.

“Yeah?” He wants to hear you say it again, and he can tell by your grin and the glint in your eyes that you know he does too.

“Absolutely, I’m probably never going to take it off.” You giggle looking down in admiration again and it makes Steve feel like a million bucks. He never wants you to take it off either.

Steve doesn’t hesitate to grab your hand as you walk up to the main gates of Wrigley Field, fingers intertwining like he doesn’t want to let go when he shows the security guard his work badge and you suppress the urge to grab it from him when you make it inside. The urge to see the picture lessened knowing that the chances of it actually being bad were slim to none.

The stadium is intimidating when it’s empty, your mind reeling when you think of what it’s going to be like in an hour when the stands are filled with screaming fans. Concession stand workers bustle around the two of you in preparation for the onslaught of sports goers. Summer hangs heavy in the air with the sun high and bright in the cloudless sky. It smells of fresh cut grass, pop corn, and hot dogs. The perfect day for a baseball game.

Your eyes grow wide when they land on the bright green field that looks even bigger than on TV, it’s the kind of green you know can’t be real with crisp white lines that lead to each of the bases. There’s a few players out practicing, they wave at Steve when they notice him. His fingers squeeze yours tighter when one of them smiles a little too friendly in your direction. The memory of you in his car on the way here admiring the necklace in the visor keeps his jealousy at bay. You were his.

“You gonna give me the grand tour or somethin’?” You ask with eyes unable to focus on anything in particular, still mesmerized by how big it all was while the two of you head in a pointed direction.

“Just grabbing something out of my office for Richard, and then I’ll show you around.” Steve winks and the gesture makes your knees weak. 

“Ooo I get to see your office?” You grin, bumping shoulders. It makes his cheeks push up.

“It’s nothin’ special, baby.” He chuckles, letting go of your hand, fingers curling around your hips to pull you into his side instead. Your heart skips a beat, looping your arms around his waist, still not used to his affection coming so effortlessly like he’s been doing this his whole life with you. 

It feels like a maze while he leads you through the stadium, twists and turns down long back hallways, tight lipped greetings every time someone walks by throwing him a ‘Steve’ with a nod of their head. Their curious eyes always land on you tucked under his arm. Who is that? Your palms sweat at the thought of how Steve was going to introduce you. The gift around your neck makes your mind wander.

It’s when you get to an elevator that you decide there’s definitely no way you’d be able to find your way out of here alone. More than confused when the back of it is all windows overlooking the opposite side of the field you had come in from. Steve laughs from behind you as if he can read your mind, big hands finding their way to the metal bar, caging you in with your back against his chest.

It takes you to the very top with a loud ding before it drops a little and the metal doors slide open. He doesn’t let you get too far before he takes your hand again to lead you down a hallway. The white walls are lined with awards, plaques, and framed Sports Illustrated covers filled with faces of different baseball players, some you recognize and some you don’t, as you make your way to the very end. You try not to make eye contact with the few men who have their doors crack half way open.

“Just gotta find the plans for next season really quick, then we’ll go see Eddie’s guy Antonio. If I don’t buy hot dogs from him specifically, I’ll never hear the end of it.” Steve rolls his eyes at the last part but you catch the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his lips as he unlocks his office door, pushing it open to let you in.

“I’m startin’ to think Eddie might be your boyfriend. Were you talkin’ to him in your room earlier? Does Peach know?” You tease looking up at him as you brush past, and you’re not surprised when the smell of cedar hits your nose again. The faint hint of cigar smoke creeping in underneath. Of course his office smells like him. 

Steve’s eyes go wide, cheeks flushing pink when he realizes he wasn’t as quiet on the phone as he thought.

“I was just - I was just following up with him on something about my trip out there in a few days.” He stammers, making you giggle. You try not to think about the news of him leaving again so soon.

“Yeah, whatever you say, handsome.” You grin and it’s his turn to roll his eyes at you, the whites of his teeth showing in spite of himself.

“Ha ha, very funny.” He dead pans before making his way around his desk that just looks like a bigger version of the one in his house. An actual desktop replaces the sleek laptop. He clicks the mouse harshly before his long fingers work the keyboard.

It’s hard to tear your attention away from him but your curiosity gets the best of you. His office is huge, you think. Maybe the size of your whole apartment kinda huge, and it's just as nice as you thought it would be.

A giant window that overlooks the entire field takes up one whole wall, walking over you realize you’re so far back that it makes the grown men out there look small. Your chest tightens when you see how high up you are. The rest of the walls are decorated with similar pictures like his office at home, group shots of work retreats, team building dinners, shaking hands with people you’re sure are important in the sports world and he looks handsome in all of them. 

There’s a baseball bat propped in the corner, and the image of him on his bluetooth swinging it around in his office while making a deal, makes a home inside your head and the dough of your thighs press. Glancing back over your shoulder at him, he’s too lost in whatever he’s searching for in his emails to notice the smirk on your face, his bright eyes squinting at the screen.

It’s heavier than expected when you grab it, the weight of it making it feel like a weapon in your hands. You do your best to remember what you’ve seen a few times on TV as you try to grip it how a real player would, before giving it a sloppy swing, your wrists almost giving out on the curve.

“Honey, you’re holding it all wrong.” You can hear the way he tries to suppress his laugh, the sound of his shoes hitting the carpet telling you he’s coming to assist. 

“Oh yeah, Mr. Big League?” Regripping the wood again, you try your best to ignore him when he stops behind you, determined to do it without him.

“These nicknames, you need to stop. They aren’t very good.” He snorts, referring to the previous classic ‘Mr. Sports’. 

That’s when he gets it. The first eye roll of the date. He thinks the first is always his favorite. 

“I think it was the nicknames that got me the second date.” Grinning like an idiot you take another terrible swing.

“Jesus Christ, you’re gonna break your wrist.” The laugh he was trying to hide earlier comes out when his arms wrap around you from behind, big hands over yours holding the bat steady and it makes you forget how to breathe for a second.

Steve’s arms cage you in and it feels like he’s everywhere. The mint on his breath still smells fresh when the side of his face presses against the top of your head, hot breath fanning across your cheek. The muscles in his stomach twitch against your back, while the ones in his arms tense, squeezing you close as his fingers move over yours helping you tighten your hold. You can barely see your hand underneath his and your stomach flips at the sight. 

He’s talking but you can’t focus on the words he’s saying, not when you can see the way his Adam’s apple bobs from the corner of your eye. The stubble on his jaw rubs against your temple as he tries to explain the proper stance on deaf ears. Pine form his body wash lingers on his skin, he overwhelms your senses but all you want is more. You can feel it in the way your body leans into him, the curve of your ass shameless against his denim.

“Okay, so that’s the grip. Now your stance, it’s all wrong.” His mouth is closer to your ear, lips ghosting along the shell of it demanding your attention. It’s as if he knows he doesn’t have any of it and all of it at once and you swear he gets closer, a subtle grind of his own hips in response to yours.

“I’m listening,” you say breathlessly. It gives you away, making his lips curve up into a smirk.

“I’m sure you are, baby.” The tip of his nose nudges behind your ear, while his fingers make a path down your arms, the pads of them dragging gently against your heated skin, callouses leaving goosebumps after them. Your breath catches before they curve around your sides, squeezing at where the dip of your hips meets the top of your thighs.

“Now, you wanna push back your hips a little.” His strong hold moves your body with ease, making your ass press hard against him and you feel that part of his body for the first time. His heart is beating so fast you can feel it. Thump, thump, thump.

“Like this?” you ask, innocence dripping from your tone. When you grind against him with more pressure you can feel just how big he really is – especially as his jeans begin to tighten. 

“Fuck - baby.” It comes out a little desperate, like he’s warning you but his hold only tightens keeping you in place. “Yeah, just like that.”

It’s his hips that roll this time, and it makes your eyes hit the back of your head. Your fingers threaten to come loose around the bat, too distracted by the man behind you. Especially when his lips ghost a path up the side of your neck, hot and wet.

“I think it’d be easier if I could have something to lean on, you know? I just really wanna teach you right.” He nips at your earlobe and it makes you shiver, pressing yourself back against him hard enough to feel the zipper of his jeans between the fat of your ass cheeks.

“You’re the professional, who am I to say no to you?” You knew you were laying it on thick, but the groan it earns makes you swallow your pride with a press of your thighs.

You squeal when he yanks you back, dropping the baseball bat to the ground with a low thud. Your giggles fill the usually quiet office and he wishes he could have you here all the time. He takes a couple long strides backwards before he hits the front of his desk, pulling you onto his lap as he sits on top of it. His hands get greedy when they reach around to grab at the tops of your thighs, the material of your dress bunching up underneath them, revealing more new skin to him. He wonders if you can feel just how hard you already have him.

“Despite not watching, like, any sports, something tells me this can’t be right, Steve.” You smirk, another giggle slipping out when you feel his smile against your neck.

“Like you would know.” He scoffs, his hands find their way back to your hips, encouraging another roll from them. The little gasp he earns makes him twitch in his pants. “Yeah?”

You nod with a ‘mmhmm’, eyes closing when he does it again. Tangerine on your tongue when you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, your hands finding a home on the tops of his thighs. You grind against him like you mean it, like you’re not playing along with whatever game this was before. 

“God, - shit, baby, this dress. This fuckin’ dress. Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His lips get sloppy on your neck, tongue and teeth nipping on sensitive stubble rubbed skin. 

Knock, knock, knock 

You both jump at the same time, hearts hammering in your chests. The feeling of being close still makes your body buzz at high frequencies as you try to recover from the last five minutes. 

“Steve?” The familiar voice is muffled behind the closed door. 

You watch Steve readjust his pants to try and hide the obvious, a nervous hand running through his hair before he answers. You make him feel like a fucking teenager.

“Hey Richard,” The husk from Steve’s voice is gone as he looks at you to make sure you’re ready for company.

Tugging the hem of your dress down, you pull the straps back onto your shoulders giving him a quick nod, cheeks burning and underwear a mess. 

“Come on in.”

Richard strikes again.

Steve takes one last look at you, dark eyes that eat you alive while his tongue rolls in against the inside of his cheek. Eyebrows marry together in a mixture of annoyance and lust when he realizes just how close he’d gotten to everything he wants. 

The door creaks and it wouldn’t be so loud if it wasn’t so quiet. A tentative Richard  steps into the room, brown eyes looking back and forth and you wonder if he can tell he interrupted something. You try to control your breathing, turning towards the window after you give him a friendly smile to try and hide the way your chest heaves.

You hate Richard.

“So we meet again.” He jokes trying to break the ice. Yeah, he knows.

Steve gives him a tight lipped smile pushing himself off the desk with another hand through his hair, the soft thuds of his shoes filling the beat of silence as he walks back behind his desk.

“I was just finishing printing out those spreadsheets for you.” Steve clears his throat and it makes your lips twitch, your eyes getting lost in the green field below you. 

You can’t bring yourself to face his boss like this, again.

“Great! I’ll take them now. I was just coming up here to see if you and your lady were coming to the pre-game drinks at The Barrel Room downstairs, some of the guys wanna run some things by you.” You can hear Richard scratch the back of his neck when Steve doesn’t answer immediately.

Steve wants you alone. Now.

“You know I hate to mix business with games, but they really wanna meet the guy behind the marketing.” He adds, telling Steve it’s really not an option to say anything other than ‘yes’.

“Sure, sure. The game doesn’t start for another hour anyway.” Steve gives, and you meet his eyes from over your shoulder with a small smile that says it’s okay.

Despite the no smoking sign, the smell of cigars linger on most of the men in the members only bar under the field. Your summer dress feels out of place in a room full of business men dressed in their expensive casual attire. Their expensive cologne mixes with the sting of whiskey that’s over a sphere of ice in most of their glasses. Lit by a dimmed chandelier, small TV’s line the space over the bar with live feeds of the field and ESPN. The nicest sports bar you’ve ever seen.

Steve keeps a tight hold on your hand when he orders you both glasses of champagne and a bottle to be delivered to the suite, winking at you when he picks the sweet option.  

“I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t think I’d be doing anything for work today.” He lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your waist pulling you to his side. His soft lips kiss your temple as a second apology.

“It’s fine, it’s actually kinda hot seeing you like this.” Looking up at him from under your lashes, you love the way it makes the tips of his ears turn pink.

“Oh yeah?” He grins, the green in his eyes threaten to turn black when his hand slides a little lower, the tips of his fingers touching just above the curve of your ass. They twitch with the urge to squeeze. 

“Yeah.” It’s quiet, just for him to hear, dripping honey like in his office. You turn your  body towards him, pressing yourself closer with a palm running up his chest, fingers playing with buttons when you bite your bottom lip into a smile.

The low groan you get vibrates from his chest, his hand daring to go a little lower, pulling you even closer.

Clink, clink

The bartender slides the two flutes over, popping you both out of your bubble right as someone clears their throat behind you.

“Steve, they're over there in the corner. They just need maybe ten minutes of your time and then I’ll get out of your hair.” Richard’s voice breaks you two apart but Steve still keeps a hand on the small of your back as he hands your glass over, the popping and fizzing of the bubbles inside making it shimmer rose gold in the low light. 

“Sure, I’ll follow you.” He takes a sip before bringing his eyes back to yours, the blunt ends of his nails scratch lightly against your back, giving you his undivided attention. “You gonna be okay for a little bit?” 

“I’m a big girl, handsome.” You smirk around the edge of your glass, all the blood rushing to your cheeks when he looks at you like that.

“I know you are, baby.” The smile that takes over his face knocks the air out of your lungs. Steve presses a kiss to your forehead before he follows Richard to the two men across the room who are looking eager to meet the man you can’t get enough of.

Ten minutes turns to twenty and another glass of champagne, your eyes meeting Steve’s every so often across the room in a silent apology. This second glass is enough to make your skin come alive, fingertips buzzing and nerves melting. The bubbles tickle your lips when you take another sip, the strap of your dress falling down your shoulder at the same time. 

Licking your lips, the sweetness of your gloss mixes perfectly with the fruity hints of the champagne and it makes you give a quiet ‘mmm!’ when it hits your taste buds. Setting your drink down, you can feel him staring as you fix your dress. Your fingers wrap around the soft material, and you dare to meet his eyes again. The green forest you’re so used to getting lost in is replaced by the kind of darkness you’ve only seen in the night sky, the kind where the moon hides the stars in its depths. The men surrounding him are talking but he’s not paying attention, his sole focus is on you.

The two glasses of champagne makes you feel bold. Holding his stare, you move slowly when you pull it back to its home on the top of your shoulder. Soft fingertips drag across your skin, leaving the kind of goosebumps he usually gets and it makes his jaw clench. He needed to get out of here. 

He knocks back the rest of his glass, saying something to the men that have stolen enough of his time from you. He finally excuses himself with a few strong handshakes and that million dollar smile. The one that always makes your thighs press. Running a hand through his hair as he pushes through the crowded bar, his eyes stay locked on yours, heavy lidded and hungry and it makes your stomach do flips.

“Ready to pay attention to me?” You pretend to pout when you turn around to face him. When you lean back on your elbows he can’t help but take in everything you’re offering him. 

Big hands grab at your waist, pulling you against his chest. He’s got a lopsided salt and pepper grin when he dips his head down to skim his nose along your jaw before his lips stop right at your ear. They twitch when he feels the way it makes you shiver.

“More than you know, baby.”

The suite is somehow even nicer than you’d imagined it’d be, the kind of nice that makes you giggle when you take it all in. Flat screen TV’s hang from two separate places on the exposed brick walls. The bottle of champagne he’d ordered earlier sits chilled in a bucket on the marble countertop in the small kitchen with two glasses. The stainless steel fridge that you’re sure is fully stocked shines in the bright, low hanging lights. 

The open concept leads to a living room area, a dark gray leather couch sitting in the middle looking way too comfortable for something like this. It faces a giant window that overlooks first base, high enough in the stadium for no one to be around you and gives out to a balcony with four seats to watch the game outside. 

“Jesus Christ.” You laugh wandering around the new space, fingertips touching the cool leather of the couch as you look at one of the TV’s that hang over it. A crystal clear image of the game getting ready to start just outside. The empty stands were completely filled while you were busy in the boys club downstairs. 

“Yeah, it’s a little ridiculous.” Steve chuckles, the loud pop of the champagne being opened echoes in the big space. “I never watch games in the suites. Me and Ed are always in the stands. I was actually a little surprised when Richard offered it.”

Maybe Richard wasn’t that bad.

You can hear the way the bubbles fizz when he pours you each a glass, neither of you speaking. The realization you were finally alone hangs thick in the air. No more interruptions. The crowd cheers outside when the announcer booms through the speakers that line the outside of the field. The sounds of the game starting cuts through the tension like a knife. Steve clears his throat behind you, making you jump a little. 

“Sorry, honey,” He smiles, trying not to laugh as he hands you a glass.

“Champagne and hot dogs? Steve, I think you’re trying to get me to fall in love with you,” you say,  a part of you that feels like it’s already too late. You are in love with him.

“I still can’t believe you asked Antonio for ketchup, shoulda taken a picture of his face.” Steve snorts, cheeks turning pink at your words. 

“Normal people eat their hot dogs with ketchup, Steve. I’ll ask for ketchup at every hot dog establishment in this city. I don’t care.” You roll your eyes at him for the second time today, and he thinks he’ll get a lot more of those by the end of the night as you keep sipping your sweet drink. 

“I’ll make sure not to be there when you do.” Steve winks smiling over the edge of his glass and it makes you just as flustered as the first time.

“Whatever, it’s a stupid.” You mumble turning back towards the window because looking at him was becoming too much you– fingers twitching to touch him, your lips pouting just to kiss him.

You set your drink down on the coffee table, the buzz from before coming back when the alcohol breaks through the food you had on your way up here. The nerves in your stomach become a mess as you walk up to the thick glass. The game he was supposed to teach you was already in full swing below. The tight baseball uniforms have you imagining what Steve would’ve looked like iand the thought is enough to make the softness of your thighs meet. 

Steve sets his glass down next to yours, licking his lips as he gets to take in the way your dress wraps around your curves. You can feel the heat of his stare on you and it makes you shiver, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. You try to focus on the game and not the way he comes up behind you. He smells like whiskey and summer, the fruity notes from the champagne coming out in the breath that fans down your neck in a mixture of Steve.

“Speaking of rules.” The husk in his voice is back, and the tip of his nose nudges behind your ear. He can’t see the way it makes your eyes hit the back of your head, but he can hear the way it makes your breath catch as his lips brush that sensitive spot on your neck. 

“Yeah, some teacher you are. The game, the-“ you stutter when his hands find their way to your hips, squeezing before they move down, long fingers spreading wide over your thighs. “The game’s already started.” You manage to breathe out, giving into him pulls you against him.

He’s already hard again, and he’s barely touched you. The feeling of your body, with only the thin material of your dress keeping his hands from what’s underneath, sends his brain into orbit, especially when he feels the slow grind of your hips searching for more.

“You actually gonna listen to me?” Steve asks with lips so close to your ear that it almost makes you whimper. All you can do is nod, and he relishes in the way your eyelids get heavy when he hums ‘hmm?’ to ask you again. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll listen.” You can’t find it yourself to care how you sound a little desperate.

One hand stays on the curve of your hip, while the tips of his fingers on the other trace over the goosebumps already blooming on the exposed skin of your thigh. They catch the bottom hem of your dress, dragging the soft material up with them. Wet lips leave sloppy kisses along your neck, smiling against the curve of it when he feels the way you spread for him, silently granting him permission. 

“So, the umpire is the guy crouched behind the hitter,” He whispers, as he keeps moving up at a pace so slow it almost makes you stomp your feet, tempted to throw a fit to make him touch you. “He keeps track of the pitches, the swings and misses. Three strikes, you’re always out.”

He reaches the lace edges of your panties, and it makes him twitch in his pants. How dare you?

“Fuck - baby.” He dips a finger underneath, tugging the material lightly before letting it snap back against your hip. “You wear these for me?”

“Maybe.”  You smirk, arching your back so your ass rubs against him in a way that makes his grip on your hip turn bruising. He exhales a deep breath through his nose to try and regain control.   

“Maybe?” He tsks while the hand under your dress gets bolder, the pads of his fingers brushing over the heat between your legs, groaning when he feels the way you’re already soaked through them. “This doesn’t feel like a maybe.” 

“I’m missing the game because -“ You gasp when he dares to push them to the side, a thick middle finger swiping through your folds, moaning at how you feel like silk.. 

“Because?” He practically purrs as he circles your bundle of nerves with a pointed pressure, like he already knows just what to do to make you fall apart.

He feels even bigger pressing hard against your ass like this. Your hips roll to meet the motions of his finger, offering him a little relief when his hips meet yours at the same pace. 

“You’re -you’re not teaching me.” Your jaw goes slack when another finger starts circling your entrance, lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

“Well, you’re not looking.” He’s smug, especially when he dares to push the tip of his finger in just enough to stretch you out, earning a gasp.

The crack of the bat meeting the ball makes your eyes snap open. The loud cheer of the crowd is enough to make the ground shake underneath you. Steve uses the distraction as his opening to slide the first two knuckles of his finger inside you. Your hand comes down to wrap around his wrist, a small whine escaping you when he pushes it all the way in. He braces himself against the window when your hips start to roll, helping him work you open. Every movement of his hand brings you closer against him to meet in the best kind of friction. 

“See, your eyes are closed, honey.” You can feel his grin when he nips at your jaw, the middle finger on your clit being replaced with the pad of his thumb when he has it join in stretching you more for him. 

Opening your eyes is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially when he already has you feeling so full with just two of his fingers. They flutter open with every ounce of your strength you have left, and he hums in approval when he sees them again.

“Good girl.” His praise makes you clench around him and he’ll never forget it as he starts littering kisses along your shoulders, the strap of your dress falling down again. “Now he didn’t get a home run, but the bases are loaded. Do you know what that means?” 

The deep baritone in the way he’s talking to you makes it even easier for his fingers to keep up their pace, coating them in even more slick when it vibrates against your ear. 

“No- oohhh,” Moaning when his thumb adds the kind of pressure that threatens to make your knees buckle. He grinds himself against you with a little more force, never this close to cumming in his pants since high school.

He grunts, his cool facade breaking when you meet his hips, circling slow when you feel him push between your ass cheeks again. 

“It’s when the hitting team has a member - god, baby, you feel that? So fucking wet.” He pauses so he can hear the mess you're making of his hand. 

“There’s a player on every base, so if he can hit it far enough and they can all make it to home base, they’ll gain the lead -  You’re so damn tight.” Steve doesn’t know if he can even do what he’s asking of you anymore, too lost in the feeling of the velvet of your walls wrapped around his fingers and what it’s going to feel like when he finally gets to be inside of you.

All you do is nod, the coil in your stomach tightening in a way you’ve never felt before. Your grip on his wrist tightens, and the muscles tense as he keeps working you to the edge. The thrust of his hips against you becomes shameless as he chases his own end.

Another loud crack of a bat catches your attention, you can barely see the baseball as it soars far over the field. Bouncing off of the back wall when no one catches it, the players on their respective bases start making a run for it, making the crowd go wild.

“You gonna cum for me, pretty?” He asks leaving open mouth kisses anywhere he can reach, teeth nipping at sensitive skin while his fingers curl, the tips of them hitting the spot that makes you see white. Your eyes catch the silver around your neck in the reflection of the window and it's enough to make you give in.

“Ohmygod, Steve - fuck, yes, yes, daddy, yes.” 

He doesn’t know if it’s how your voice raises a pitch when you call him daddy or if it’s the way you reach behind him shamelessly trying to work him through his jeans, but it’s enough for his own body to go rigid. He moans loud enough to drown out the crowd, and you feel the warmth of his release under your palm. Your own washes over you hard enough to make your legs shake. You clench around his fingers that struggle to keep up their pace, but still relentless in their mission to keep you falling apart for him. You give him another squeeze through his pants and it makes him whine overstimulated against your neck.

The sound of the sports broadcasters vibrates from the speakers of the TV, signaling the switching of teams with the Cubs in the lead for the first inning. When Steve can finally see straight, the realization of what just happened makes his cheeks tinge the darkest shade of red. You made him cum his fucking pants. The day of touching and teasing took just as much of a toll on him as it did you. Your walls still flutter with every twitch of his fingers still buried inside of your heat, and he swears his dick threatens to get hard again.

He’s gentle when he pulls himself out of you, pressing soft kisses with sweet words against your cheek when you whimper a little at the feeling of being empty again.

“How’s my tough girl?” He whispers nose nudging your cheek as he puts your underwear back the way he found it, tugging down the bottom of your dress before turning you around to finally face him.

Your body still buzzes like a live wire, no one making you cum that hard from just their fingers before. The men your age always want to move so quickly. Steve’s eyes are still glazed over with a post orgasm glow, cheeks flushed, hair mused and all you wanted to do was kiss him.

“Feeling like an expert in baseball.” You giggle, and it makes him throw his head back giving you one of those deep bellied laughs you love so much.

You don’t wait anymore, pushing up on your toes -  your lips meet his in an explosion of things you want to say but can’t. Not yet. He doesn’t hesitate to meet with the same eagerness, pushing you up against the window with a big hand coming up to your cheek, his thumb coaxing you open with a pull on your chin.

That feeling stayed with you the rest of the day, the two of you attempting to watch the game in between kisses cuddled on the couch and teaching of rules that you claimed were stupid just to get him to scoff. It swelled in your chest the whole car ride home, your fingers fiddling with the stone dangling from your neck and his hand finding a home on the top of your thigh.

You almost let it spill when he walked you to your door, kissing you stupid in your narrow hallway despite the sticky thick humidity. He watches the way you silently battle with the urge to invite him in, and despite everything inside of him wanting to just get lost in you for the rest of the night, he couldn’t have you like that once and leave. So he keeps kissing you by your door until sweat drips from your pores and your dress gets rucked up to your hips again. Promising you his time when he gets back, eyes gleaming with sincerity with his forehead against yours.

Yeah, you were in love with Steve Harrington.

———————————————————————

beta’d by @chechelia thank you ily ♥️

dividers by @chechelia

🌇 -> chapter ten

[whumpsday]

I Deserved It

Whump Oneshot - Writing masterlist here

content: time loop, pet whump, failed escape attempt, guns, major character death, whumper turned caretaker, suicide

Whumpmas in July Day 3: "___ deserved it."

i wrote this all in one sitting and when i looked up it was 4am. starting WIJ off with a bang!!

-

Day 1

Devran didn’t know it was day one of anything at the time, though he certainly learned fast.

The little shit had tried to escape. It had never done that before, and he certainly wasn’t a fan of it. He’d thought his training was getting him somewhere, Emereo seemed almost completely obedient. But somehow, it had all gotten away from him.

Not enough for the pet to actually succeed, of course.

His captive was weeping in a crumpled heap on the floor by the time Devran was done with it. Devran was careful to never go further than what he could fix on his own–it wasn’t like he could take the damn thing to a hospital without getting arrested. Still, the bruised, broken figure kneeling at his feet seemed thoroughly cowed, and the fresh, smoking brand on its shoulder blade ensured that it would never forget its place again.

He grabbed it by the collar, the pet’s eyes flashing with terror as it was brought up again.

“Master–” Emereo gasped, “Master, please, I’m sorry! No more, I won’t run again! I’ve learned my lesson!” It winced away from him as much as it could without pulling back.

Devran scoffed. “Clearly, you’ve learned nothing. Begging for the punishment you’ve duly earned to stop?”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” it cried. It opened its mouth, then closed it again, no doubt biting back more pleas for it to end.

“You deserved it.” He shook the helpless thing a bit, watching it choke on the collar for a moment before moving with it. “Say it!”

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran dropped it, then kicked it one last time for good measure. Emereo whimpered and curled in on itself, every muscle in its body tensed and waiting.

Exactly how he wanted it.

He dragged it back over to the wall, clipping its collar to the chain there. “No food today or tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”

Emereo slumped over. “Th-thank you, Master.”

Devran left it there, locking the basement up as he went upstairs. Two days nursing its injuries in the dark with no food should give it the time it needed to reflect on its actions.

He went on with his day, not paying any more mind to the crying mess in his basement aside from when he cleaned the branding iron.

Later, he would swear that somehow, when he went to bed that night, he could feel that something wasn’t right.

-

Day 2

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran blinked.

He was back in the basement, his fist coiled around his pet’s collar, just like yesterday. Emereo’s brand was even still smoldering, he noted.

He dropped the wretched thing, taking a moment to collect himself while Emereo shook on the ground. He must have been dreaming, right? The last thing he remembered was falling asleep.

“Sir?” Emereo squeaked.

“Stupid,” he muttered, turning away and back up the stairs. Though he didn’t bother closing the door, the Emereo of his dreams had learned its lesson just as well as the real one and stayed put.

Devran straight up to bed, and though it was still light out, managed to get himself to drift off into a nap.

-

Day 3

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran was not the slow sort.

He only gripped the pet’s collar tighter, drawing it up with a yank. “What’s going on?” he barked.

“I deserved it!” Emereo repeated, pupils dilated. Its hands raised slightly, then lowered as it snuffed out the instinct to loosen the pressure around its neck. “I’m so sorry, Master! Please!”

“Forget about the stupid escape!” Devran threw the pet to the floor, hard. Its skull cracked audibly against the concrete, though it did not lose consciousness. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Emereo’s breaths came quick as it wracked its mind, desperate to placate its master. “R-remember what, sir? I remember my lessons! I won’t forget again!”

“Great. Just great.” Devran stormed upstairs and locked the door behind him. If he was going to figure this out, it certainly wouldn’t be aided by a stupid pet who had no idea what was even happening.

Internet searches returned only science fiction. Obviously, this was out of the realm of the ordinary. He was on his own, but Devran was nothing if not adaptable.

And clearly, he had all the time in the world to figure it out.

After a day of fruitless research, he checked himself into a hotel for the night. Perhaps it was the bed.

-

Day 4

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It was not the bed.

Devran sighed, dropped the pet, and headed back upstairs without another word. He started writing ideas in his journal, but scrapped that–it would all be erased anyway. He would simply have to remember everything.

He brewed a pot of coffee in pursuit of his next endeavor. Every time he slept, he reset. So he simply would not sleep. Obviously unsustainable, but maybe if he crossed some sort of threshold, time would go forward as it was meant to again. It wasn’t like he’d never pulled an all-nighter before. He would aim to pull two, at least.

On the bleary 40th hour of his endeavor, Devran was pulled from his countless shaky-handed cup of coffee by a soft knocking.

“Master?” came a small voice.

At least it was something to distract from the sleeplessness. Devran opened the door. “What?”

Emereo backed up, almost tripping over itself as it fled to the bottom of the stairs. “C-could I have some water, please? My bowl’s been empty… I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just…”

It was very, very clearly sorry. It was apparent that it would rather be doing anything else at the moment.

Devran rolled his eyes. “Stay.”

The pet obeyed as Devran filled a cup with water, brought it back, and tossed it down the stairs, spilling it all over the floor. It could lick it off the ground if it wanted it so badly. He was too tired to give a shit. “There’s your water.”

“Thank you, sir!” Emereo called as he slammed the door back.

Devran returned to his pacing until he was simply too exhausted, only daring to sit down for just a moment.

-

Day 5

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

“Damn it!” Devran shouted, throwing his pet to the floor. It shrieked, covering its face as it cowered away.

Back to the drawing board.

He stared curiously at the pet curled on the ground. He’d been focusing on himself and his behaviors to stop the loop, but why did he always wake up here? Was it simply random chance, or could Emereo be connected to this, somehow? Even if it couldn’t remember?

Devran lowered Emereo, then released its collar. “Have you ever seen Groundhog Day?”

“W-what?” it asked, completely tense as it looked up at him.

“The movie, the one about the man trapped in a time loop. Keep up.” Devran snapped his fingers.

Emereo immediately positioned itself into a kneeling position. “Yes, sir! I’ve seen Groundhog day. M-my siblings and I used to watch it on the actual holiday.” It covered its mouth suddenly, like it had said something it shouldn’t have.

“I’m stuck in a time loop. Like in Groundhog Day. Do you understand?” Devran asked.

It was immediately clear that the pet thought he was losing his mind. It looked up at him questioningly, trying and failing to hide its obvious disbelief. “...Yes, sir. And… should I be, um, doing something?”

“You should be glad your punishment’s interrupted. I keep resetting right then, why is that?” he muttered.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry.” Emereo’s voice was quiet, trying hard not to trip on unsteady ground.

“Useless.” Devran left it down there and headed upstairs, then out the door.

His friends were even more useless than the internet had been.

-

Day 6

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran dropped it, heading upstairs without another word. It had been a while since he’d opened this drawer for anything other than cleaning, and, well, he’d always wanted to try this. Either it would break the loop and he’d be free, or it wouldn’t and there would be no consequences.

The pet’s eyes grew wide as it looked up the stairs when he returned, straight up the barrel.

“Sir?” it breathed, not daring to move a muscle.

“Good night, pet.”

With that, his basement was painted red. Devran didn’t bother cleaning it up.

-

Day 7

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It was strange, seeing his pet so full of life after blasting its brains all over the walls. Devran released it to the floor, taking a step back.

“You used to watch Groundhog Day every Groundhog Day with your siblings,” he said simply.

Despite its aching body and cracked ribs, Emereo moved swiftly to prostrate itself, bending until it was the utter picture of submission.

“Please don’t hurt them,” it choked out, “I’ll do anything, Master, anything, I promise I’ll never try to run again, just please. I’ll be such a good pet for you, I swear! You’ll never need to discipline me again! Please don’t, oh God, please–”

“I’m not going to kidnap your fucking family. Get a grip.” Devran snapped, and Emereo in turn snapped up to an upright kneeling position. It cried out as the sudden movement jostled its injuries, but did not complain.

In all their time together, he had never seen it quite this distressed. Devran pocketed the idea to ensure future obedience, once he’d dealt with this damn loop.

“You told me this. I’m trapped in a time loop,” he explained. “Do you believe me now?”

“Yes, sir!” The pet was unreadable this time, its mind clearly elsewhere.

“Listen.” Devran snapped again, and Emereo flinched. “Every day for the past week, I’ve woken up to you crying here, and nothing I’ve tried has worked. I’m half-convinced you’re somehow involved with this.”

“I didn’t!” Emereo insisted, fresh tears brimming. “I s-swear, sir, I didn’t, I’m sorry I tried to escape, but I didn’t–”

“Not like that. In the more… catalytic sense,” he corrected.

Emereo pursed its lips.

“What?” Devran demanded. “Spit it out. I only have all day.”

“H-have…” It cut itself off. “I’m afraid I’ll be… punished again, sir. I don’t want to disrespect you.”

“You’re disrespecting me more by disobeying my direct order to spit it out.”

“Have you ever seen Groundhog Day, sir?” Emereo asked. It put its arm up to guard its face, as if that would do anything.

Ah. Of course that would be the first thing the stupid pet thought of. He hadn’t seen the movie itself, but it had wormed its way into popular culture enough for him to get the gist: a man is trapped in a time loop until he betters himself as a person.

“Very fucking funny. That’s a movie, this is real life.” Devran turned to leave it once more, then stopped.

Why not? He might as well try everything.

“You know what?” He turned back toward the pet.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Emereo wailed. “Please, I didn’t want to say it, you ordered me to!”

“Go.” Devran stepped aside, gesturing up the stairs.

Emereo shook its head, frantic. “I’ve learned, sir. I promise. I’ll never run again, never, never.”

“I said to fucking go.” Devran grabbed it by the collar and dragged it upstairs, throwing it out the door. “Don’t come back.”

He shut the door in its bewildered face.

It wasn’t even an hour later that police showed up to arrest him.

Devran didn’t particularly mind. If it stuck, he would still be imprisoned for less time here than he would be if it didn’t.

-

Day 8

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran abandoned the pet once more to work on his own. While Emereo’s idea was juvenile at best, there was a kernel of worth in it: perhaps there was some use in looking to time loop narratives. If someone else had ever escaped his predicament, perhaps they’d write a book or script about it. It wasn’t like he was lacking time.

He threw some food and water down for the pet so he wouldn’t be disturbed, then set to work.

After Groundhog Day, The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, and Happy Death Day, he fell asleep halfway through 1408.

-

Day 9

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

It had only been just over a week, but the spot Devran had left off in his old life was slowly starting to lose its meaning. He couldn’t find any energy to be angry about the escape attempt anymore.

“Up,” Devran ordered, releasing its collar.

Emereo struggled to its feet. “Yes, sir.”

Devran led it upstairs. “Go sit on the couch.”

“Yes, sir.” Emereo collapsed there, whimpering as it tried to find some semblance of comfort with its injuries.

“Your punishment is over. I’m going to be watching some movies and TV shows. If you’re good, you can stay and join me for lunch and dinner,” Devran offered. Perhaps the recent watch of Groundhog Day had made him soft after all.

The pet wiped its eyes. “Thank you, Master. I’ll be good.”

He put on 1408 again, fast-forwarding until he got to the point he’d fallen asleep at. The pet watched with rapt attention, not seeming to mind having missed the beginning of the movie. It did not speak at all during its run, only looking away to try and fail to spot the brand now taking residence behind its shoulder.

After a horrific torment at the hands of a cursed hotel room, the protagonist ended up setting it ablaze and escaping. Devran had already successfully fallen asleep outside his house, so that didn’t help at all.

“This wasn’t the original ending,” Emereo piped up suddenly. “They changed it because test screeners thought the director’s vision was too much of a downer. There’s actually four endings, ‘cause they made a bunch trying to find a good one for theaters, they included them all in the DVD release. He dies in the fire in the original one.”

Devran turned to look at it.

Emereo shied away. “I-I used to watch a lot of horror movies. Master.”

“Hm.” Well, that was equally as useless. If dying was the only way to escape the loop, he’d be dead after he escaped, and it would be pointless. “Lunch time, I think.”

It turned out that getting through all the movies and staying awake was easier with Emereo’s commentary. It slowly opened up as Devran encouraged it. It even gave recommendations.

-

Day 10

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

Devran lowered his hold slowly, then released it. That brand really did look nasty. All that bright-eyed babbling from yesterday was gone, now.

“Punishment’s over. Come on.” Devran helped it up, his hold firm even as Emereo flinched from his touch. “No more hurting for now.”

Emereo was able to get up the stairs much faster with help. Devran even applied some burn cream to its brand and gave it some ibuprofen for the pain.

“Thank you, Master,” it said after it downed the pills. “You’re… more merciful than I’d expected. Thank you. I really won’t try to run again. I’ve learned.”

It was a pathetically low bar, but it was also the most kindness Devran had ever allowed it at once. This was how he’d imagined it in the beginning, when he’d pictured training a human pet: a loyal, devoted companion, after the pesky conditioning was out of the way. He’d seen others in his circles accomplish the same. He’d thought for a while that they’d simply chosen better victims, and he was stuck with this one now that he couldn’t let it go without the police on his tail. Maybe it just required a gentler hand.

“Good. Maybe I’ve been too harsh with you, and that’s why you felt the need to run,” Devran conceded. “We can both learn from this. A better pet and a better owner.”

He chanced a soft pat on the head. Emereo only flinched a little.

“I’d like that, sir,” Emereo agreed. There was no doubt in Devran’s mind that it wanted to be free more, but its words were sincere nonetheless.

-

Devran fell into a routine.

At the start of each day, he took care of Emereo, learning more and more what words were most effective in calming him down–a he now, eventually–as he treated the injuries he’d inflicted. He made lunch for the two of them, then did something related to the loop. Research or an attempt to break it. As the days went by, he grew lazier and lazier with that, sometimes skipping it altogether as he grew more sure there was no way out after all.

He spent the rest of the day relaxing with his beloved pet, falling into a kind of peace. Emereo never reacted well when he tried to free him or take him outside, only causing more distress after the punishment he’d just taken. So he stayed.

-

Day 259

“I–I deserved it, sir,” Emereo sobbed.

“Good, there you go. It’s over now, I promise. You’re going to be alright.” Devran unclipped the collar from Emereo’s neck and tossed it aside. “You did such a good job. I’m not going to hurt you again. Let’s treat those injuries, okay? Let me help you up the stairs.”

Emereo’s face was the picture of relief. Devran had seen it hundreds of times. “Thank you, Master.”

It bothered Devran that this was the reset point. If only it could have been an hour earlier, before he’d caused so much pain. He’d even prayed for it, during his brief stint turning toward the church for an answer to his loop. But he always woke in the same spot.

After Emereo was all treated, Devran wrapped him in a blanket, brought him to the couch, and served him his favorite food: grilled cheese. It was about the most content someone recently-tortured could look, but through it all, there was always that undercurrent of pain and fear.

It was cruel, really. Devran had made his peace with the loop, but Emereo was the one that truly suffered for it, even if he couldn’t remember.

By this point, there was only one thing he hadn’t tried. He had mulled it over for quite a while, and he’d finally made up his mind. It was a bit drastic, but if it was the only way to free Emereo from his daily torment, he had to at least try, didn’t he?

He took his journal and wrote the names of everyone else he could think of, then tore out the page, folding it in half.

“Emereo? There’s something I need you to do,” he said as he joined him back downstairs.

“Yes, Master?” he asked, suddenly just a little more tense. Devran hated that. He wondered if Emereo would ever lose that fear, if he spent some years away from here. Away from him.

He handed Emereo the paper. “You don’t need to read this, it won’t make sense to you anyway. These are my… friends. If you ever get out of here, give this to the police, okay?”

Emereo looked lost, but that was alright. He didn’t need to understand just yet. “Um, yes, sir.”

“Good. You’re free to do as you please. Use the phone, take a walk outside, whatever you like. You won’t be punished.” Devran left him there and locked himself in his bedroom. He didn’t want Emereo to be the one to find him, even if it reset and he wouldn’t remember.

“Well, here goes nothing.” Devran clicked the safety off and shot himself in the head.

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[ddejavvu]

party girl! reader x party boy! sirius please?? maybe they sneak out to a hogsmeade speakeasy club or maybe its modern au? up to you, i love your work!!!

post-party where you and sirius count how many smooches you got the night prior <3

--

"This one's Marlene," You hum thoughtfully, tapping at a kiss mark on your cheek, "That's her shade."

The stark red lipstick stands out against your skin, long since dried from when she'd stamped you with it last night. Sirius searches his own face for a similarly-colored kiss mark, and when he finds none, grumbles something about being 'unfairly overlooked'.

"Sirius has one from me," Lily muses, "But I did it on his hand because there wasn't room on his face."

"There wasn't room on his face," You mock her in a sneer, huffing at the unintentional boast, "Whatever. I've got more, I'm telling you."

"Face it, babe," Sirius grins wolfishly at you, "I won this time."

"Thirteen," James, one of your weekly post-party kiss mark counters, finds the remnants of a smooch nestled against the curve of Sirius's jaw, "Y/N, I think this one's yours."

"Mhm," You nod, pointing to one on your forehead, "We give each other one at the beginning of the night, to get ourselves started."

"Well, thirteen total," James settles back on his knees, watching as Remus's face twists up into a smirk.

"Fifteen."

All at once, Sirius's face switches to indignation.

"What? Fifteen," He barks, launching forwards to inspect your face, "Bullshit. Lemme count, mate."

Remus taps at each of the kiss marks on your face individually, letting Sirius keep count as he goes. When he surpasses thirteen he has little interest left, but counts the last two just the same. Your butthurt boyfriend settles back on the floor with his legs crossed, glaring holes into the carpet and rubbing bitterly at the mark you'd left on his jaw.

"Cheer up, mate," James grins, and you're happy to spectate with Remus when James licks over his lips, puckering them exaggeratedly and smashing them twice into Sirius's cheek, then a third time for good measure.

"Sixteen!" He cheers, and Sirius, still pouting over his rare loss, takes to scrubbing his face clean with the sleeve of his robes, "You're always a winner in my eyes, Pads."

[phonydiaries]

In the Heat of Battle - P x Reader

Requested by @amethyst-huntress

Notes: The premise of this fic was requested by Amethyst-Huntress and I started absolutely foaming at the mouth at the idea, so huge thank-you’s are in order for that nugget of inspiration. Unfortunately, same as last time, I have still barely progressed through the game thanks to my lack of patience and skill, so please forgive that both of my fics take place extremely early in playthrough. Other than that, thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoy!

— 

Where is that damn puppet? You think to yourself, teeth gritted at the deadly inconvenience standing in front of you. 

In the dark and the rain and the constant buzzing noise of Krat, you admit it's easy to get turned around. Even traveling with a companion -in your case, with Gepetto’s puppet- it’s easy to lose track of which gloomy alleys you’d already traversed. Even standing back to back, nudging each other with your elbows, even checking in every so often,“You still with me?” It was easy to get lost. But now, standing face to face with a candelabra wielding automaton and a rabid mechanical dog, you’re  not feeling very generous towards your puppet companion. He’s probably searching for you in a frenzy at this very moment. 

Ha.

Fat load of good it does you. 

The automaton winds up and its eyes flash red across your face. Target locked. The candelabra comes crashing towards your head, but it's met instantly with the clanging cold steel of your sword. The automaton stumbles backwards. Its head cocks unnaturally to the side and you hear something whir, as if in frustration, beneath its face. It winds up again to strike you, but you’re quick and clever; you land a blow in the dead center of the loathsome thing's torso. A sick crunch of metal echoes as you draw the sword out of the brand new gaping cavity in its chest. The automaton sinks to its knees. You look down your nose at it, satisfied at your own skill. The enemy looks to be shutting down, but in a quick, almost desperate motion, its hand shoots towards your foot, grasping wildly. It's cold fingers close around your ankle, but you quickly stamp it out with your free foot. The automaton lets out a weak mechanical wheeze as its hand is crushed beneath your boot. For good measure, you take the hilt of your sword in both hands and slam the base through the miserable things forehead. It crackles, then collapses finally on the ground. You smile darkly at its now lifeless shell. Perhaps a little early. 

A sharp bark cuts through the air and your head snaps to attention. Shit. You forgot about the damn dog. Before you have the chance to raise your sword again, the dog lunges at you. Razor sharp teeth clang dissonantly together and the sound ripples against the glistening walls of the alley. In an instant, you’re knocked to the wet, muddy ground; the iron paws of the mutt are already upon your chest. The mongrel snarls mere centimeters from your face, black oily fluid spilling from its mouth as if salivating. You groan and struggle beneath its weight but regain your grip on your sword just in time to catch its rabid jaw. The dog bites down on your blade, thrashing its head to either side. You strain against its unnatural strength, attempting to pull your weapon free. In one fell swoop you’ll rip it free and decapitate this fucking thing. Your fingers curl tighter around your hilt, you ready a strike, suck in one sharp breath and then-

You freeze.

A second blade appears, glinting in the gaslight, right between your eyes. Thick black fluid goes splattering across your face. The mutt goes limp, its full weight crushing your lower torso. A gasp is pushed from your lungs and you roll to the side, quickly shoving the robotic corpse away from your body. You kneel, palms pushing into the slick ground. Your heart is thundering beneath your shirt as you swallow frigid air hard and fast. When you finally catch a breath, you turn your head towards the owner of the blade; Pinocchio, your companion. He wipes the rapier against his trousers, cleaning the sludge from its razor sharp surface. You huff, blowing matted wet bangs out of your face. 

“I had that under control.” You say sharply. P cocks an eyebrow at you, unconvinced. You feel your face burn in annoyance. “I did!” You insist, “Had you given me just one more minute I would’ve been fine. And probably less covered in this.” You jab your weapon in his direction, flecking dark oil across his shirt. He shoots you a slightly apologetic smile. 

He knows you can handle yourself, he does. He just worries. You can’t blame him; you do the same thing. You’ve gotten quite close on these arduous journeys, saving each other's skins more times than either of you can count. As you wipe the sludge from your face, P extends his hand to you and begrudgingly you take it. Swiftly, he helps you to your feet. His eyes flicker up and down your face, narrowing on your cheek. He licks the thumb of his legion hand and streaks it across your cheek, lifting the remnants of black. You scrunch your nose up at him.

“Eugh- enough-” You whine, swatting the hand away. “Where did you run off to anyways?” 

Pinocchio’s legion arm gestures behind his head. You squint through the darkness at the distant yellow lights of Hotel Krat up ahead. You grimace. It’s further still than you thought. “I don’t suppose you found some kind of underground shortcut?” P shakes his head apologetically. You both sigh, knowing you’ve got plenty of dangers yet to face before you’re given any time to rest. These days spent traveling have taken their toll on your bodies, but you’re at least grateful to have a friend in the gloom of Cerasani Alley. Your sword slides neatly into your belt as you walk ahead of Pinocchio. “Back to it then.” 

As the two of you push forward, you notice a concerted effort on your companions' part to stick close to your side. At any strange noise or eerie shadow, P reaches for your hand. You squeeze back in reassurance that all is well. A bit unnecessary? Sure. But you don’t fight it. It’s much preferred to losing the poor boy again. 

Drawing closer to your destination with only a few minor scuffles to slow you down, you reach a dilapidated fairgrounds. Sickly yellow light bulbs buzz overhead and cast an ominous glow across the entire scene. A ghostly music box melody plinks and permeates the air. You look to P quizzically. 

“You’re sure this is the right way?”

P takes in his surroundings and gives you a curt nod. You grimace in reply. This decrepit place gives you the creeps.

Together you silently weave through wooden cutouts of circus performers, checking carefully for hidden enemies. It's suspiciously quiet, save for the phantasmal carnival music that grows louder as you approach an iron gate. Another barrier. Excellent. 

“P?” You step aside and gesture to the locked gate. Pinocchio smiles slyly at you, boyishly pleased that there’s still a few things you can’t do without him. You want to roll your eyes, but you watch reluctantly impressed, as deep violet energy crackles around his fist. In one swift swing, he punches through the gate and leaves a smoking crater where the lock once sat. He shoots you a sharp smile, satisfied with himself. 

And then you feel something. A great mechanical thud rippling beneath your feet. Your heads snap in unison towards the source and your eyes go wide at the sight of the staggering monster in front of you. At least 3 times your size looms the Parade Master, constructed of decaying parts and craquelured paint. Its massive fist alone is as wide as your body, and sways heavily at its side. 

You unsheathe your blade, and its weight sinks your shoulders. It's not ideal for speed you admit, but the vindication after landing those obliterating killing blows to your enemies is unbeatable. Keeping your eyes locked on target, you whistle to catch Pinocchio’s attention. You started doing this early on. Whistles were a good line of nonverbal communication when you couldn’t afford a glance in each other's direction. 

“Flank him?” You suggest. Pinocchio whistles quick and sharp in agreement. Your fingers tighten around the great sword and your chest thrums with anticipation. You jut your chin in the direction of your common enemy. “After you.” 

Without looking, you know his brows are furrowed together in deep focus. You can perfectly visualize the way he lures the puppet away, his steps meticulously timed and graceful. As you wind your way behind the thing, you hear the clang of P’s rapier against tarnished metal. Your enemy rears its arm back, and you follow suit striking its vulnerable back with a satisfying SHUK! You yank the blade out of its now damaged shell and catch the briefest glance at your companion and oh. Oh. The way he looks at you. 

With fascination?

Admiration?

It’s something greater, deeper than that. Your heart skips. But you shake yourself out of distraction, startled at the sound of your own voice calling out. Your lips move before your mind has time to catch up. 

“MOVE!” 

Exactly as you shout it, P dodges a strike from the Parade Master. The brute’s fist lands in the brick pavement, blowing a hole through it instantaneously. You gulp at the thought of your companion lying there instead, crushed. Your skin goes cold. 

No. Never.

Knowing neither of you can afford another lapse in attention, you suck in one long loud whistle between your teeth. The Parade Master whips itself around to face you. Two huge lamp-like eyes glow sickly in your direction. This was intentional. You can distract for now and give your ally a moment to catch his breath. You ready both hands on your weapon and take a step back. The monster lurches forward, its steps accompanied by a horrid clanking sound. 

“Get over here you fucking rust bucket…” You mutter grimly under your breath as the space between you and the looming threat of death shrinks. You breathe deeply and steel yourself, heels digging into stone. You watch carefully as the puppet rushes towards you, arms swinging wildly. Just when the behemoth is about to crush you beneath its huge frame, you duck between its legs and emerge from behind. There’s just enough time to land a solid blow. P’s rapier crosses with your greatsword, both your weapons plunging into the deteriorated creatures back. 

“This one’s mine, P.” You snap, pulling your blade from its fresh wound. 

“Mine.” P parrots with a smirk, retrieving his rapier as well. Being a man of so few words, you can't help feeling amused even given the circumstances. This is good. The beast is growing weaker. If you can both keep level heads this will all be over soon, you think to yourself. 

At least until your enemy decapitates itself. 

Your jaw drops as the Parade Master rips its own head from its massive shoulders. It wields its shiny new weapon like an enormous mace and swings it your way. It makes contact with the ground, and the impact alone is enough to shake your balance. You dive to the side, narrowly avoiding collision with the wall. You struggle to recalibrate, to size up the situation while keeping yourself out of the range of attack. You hear P whistle pointedly across the arena, waiting on your instruction. Your mind races for a plan and comes up blank. 

“Hold on!” You shout, “Just- Just hold on, I’ll think of something.” You’ll have to if you want to leave this place in one piece. There’s nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All you can think to do is attack. And you do; your blade leaves white hot gash marks on the enemy, but it hardly seems to be enough against such a terrible and towering foe. You’ve angered it now, and it’s in a total frenzy. The Parade Master swings its massive head in your direction again and you raise your sword to block it. Half a second too late. 

As your weapons collide, the impact sends you to the ground. You gasp at the sharp pain that shoots through your skull. There’s a ringing in your ears and a soft dark edge to your vision. You struggle against unconsciousness and fight to keep yourself upright. Things are moving slow; trails of light obscure the events unfolding in front of you. 

You comprehend something catching the Parade Masters' attention, you watch the goliath wind up, you hear something cry out, and then hear nothing at all. A sick feeling churns in the pit of your stomach and bile rises in your throat. Something’s wrong. You search the scene frantically for your ally. Your line of sight flickers from the Parade Masters head to the ground slick with rain. Your throat tightens. With his face turned to the ground, his eyes fighting to stay open, lies Pinocchio. His rapier skitters across the stone, coming to a sudden halt beneath the foot of the Parade Master. 

Something flashes through you, anger, grief, adrenaline; whatever it is, it propels you forward. Your weapon is suddenly weightless as you skid between the monstrous puppet and your companion. The head of the Parade Master collides with your sword and the sound echoes through the arena with an arresting ring. You breathe hard in disbelief of your own courage. Your teeth are bared and your furrowed brow is sticky with sweat. 

“Don’t. Touch him.” You command, and you swear even your mindless enemy hears it. A deep guttural sound is forced from the very bottom of your lungs as you thrust your weapon through the center of the automaton's body. It doesn’t die, but you hear something inside it break, and the creature slows significantly as if becoming too heavy for its own armature. 

You risk a glance over your shoulder. P looks like absolute hell, covered in grime, barely staggering to his feet. Your chest tightens at his condition, but he’s alive. 

Alive. It’s enough. 

The enemy screams in frustration, rippling orange flames and black smoke billow from the place its head once sat. You stare at the hilt of your great sword, still lodged in its heart. 

“P, your sword-” You start, but your ally is already on it, your strategic minds miraculously attuned. He sends the rapier sailing -now free of the parade masters foot- towards your open hand. It whips past your head and slides perfectly into your grasp. With what's left of the enemy in your sights, you take a running start. 

Time seems to slow; the taste of victory teases you. Your head is about to collide with the hulking hunk of metal just as you raise your boot and dig its heel into the hilt of your great sword. Its placement serves as a stepping stone, and you scale the furious beast. You clamber up its torso towards its shoulders and feel heat radiating from the inside. It burns your hands, which grip the edge of the cavernous socket of its missing head. The monster thrashes beneath you like a wild bull, desperate to throw you off. You tighten your grip, the white hot metal searing your palm. You force yourself to ignore the pain as you raise the rapier and plunge one final devastating blow into the blazing cavity. You feel the rapier obliterate whatever mechanism kept the Parade Master alive, and it crumbles finally beneath you. 

Atop the shoulders of your freshly slaughtered enemy, you fall forward with a deafening CRASH. Your body tumbles to the ground. Your grip on the rapier goes slack. Exhaustion ripples through you, and you surrender to its sweet embrace. 

You hadn’t even realized you’d lost consciousness until your eyes flutter open, met by the stunning blue gaze of your companion mere inches from your face. For a moment you forget yourself, the urge to sink into his arms is so tempting. But your pride wins out and you scramble into an upright position, barely awake. Pinocchio lets out a sigh of relief and you see his shoulders relax. Had he been just as terrified as you were at the prospect of losing him? Did that same dread sit in the pit of his stomach? 

Your head swims with what-ifs, but you have no energy to find their answers. With strength that you’re shocked to still possess, you throw your arms around the puppet. Your fingers clutch the wet fabric of his shirt as if he might disappear the moment you let go. His body tenses at first, then melts under your touch. You feel his head settle between your neck and shoulder, solid and secure. Silently breathing in the smell of him feels like waves of relief crashing over your head. 

You wish the journey could end here in the peace and quiet of this embrace, but you feel him begin to pull away and your heart sinks. Face to face with you, his eyes search for signs of damage, for something to mend. His hands find yours and you hiss involuntarily. His eyebrows knit together in concern. You try not to grimace. 

“It’s nothing.” you promise, “Burned my hand, that's all.”

P looks down at your hand and cradles it gently in his own. With painstaking care, he lifts it to his mouth and places a feather-light kiss in your palm, then on each of your scraped and bleeding knuckles. He looks up at you through those thick raven-wing lashes and you notice a trace of your blood left on his lips. The sight makes your head swim and it takes the entirety of your willpower not to catch his mouth with yours. Your posture stiffens as you try to regain your composure. 

“Well it’s not far now, is it?” You ask, deflecting back to the mission at hand. “There will be plenty of time to patch each other up at the hotel. Right?” You offer, already stupidly aching for the return of Pinocchio’s delicate touch. He blinks a few times, as if he were struggling to focus himself. But he nods enthusiastically. You feel a smile creep across your lips. 

As you leave the destroyed fairgrounds behind, you let your good hand slip into that of your companion. The two of you venture forth, certain to never lose track of the other again. 

— 

If you read this and enjoy it please let me know! Seeing your positive comments and tags absolutely warms my heart and motivates me to keep writing. Thank you so much to those of you who took the time to leave me some kind words on my last fic <3

[myownwholewildworld]

iii. like obsidian & quartz - acta, non verba

chapter 2 | series masterlist | ao3 | main masterlist | chapter 4 pairing: conqueror!marcus acacius x ofc!reader. summary: your efforts to get the ball rolling on your plan get shunted aside by marcus' chivalry. a/n: hey, hi, hello! i'm sorry it's taken me a month to post the third chapter, but here it is! 💖 i do find posting this series a bit nerve-wracking, just because i have the feeling that this plot is bigger than my writing skills so i keep wondering if i'm making it justice. but i'm rolling with it anyways haha as always, all interactions welcome, i do appreciate you liking, sharing and/or commenting! take care <3 warnings: 18+, mdni. some impure thoughts. one account of a handjob (👀). sexual tension. misogyny. a fair bit of swearing. sword fight, death, wounds, blood... you know the drill. dialogue in italics means it’s spoken in gaelic (unless stated otherwise, i.e. latin) when marcus and callie are in the same scene. marcus is 48, ofc!reader is 26. w/c: ~9.9k. (i'm truly sorry) dividers by @saradika-graphics taglist at the end (let me know if you want to be added/removed please!)

“Here again, wee lass?” Cormag’s croaky voice caught you off guard.

You jumped in place and almost hit the back of your head against the shelf above.

You were bent over a pile of baskets in the kitchen, trying to count how many wild parsnips there were left. With your family gone, you had to look after your people. You worried there was not much left to eat, but the old cook seemed to be good at rationing. The Romans had no measure when it came to food, rapidly dwindling the stock saved for the village. There were way too many mouths to feed now, and the first harvest of the root vegetables would not be for at least another six months.

Your blood boiled when you saw the feasts the Romans were served every night while the servants had a measle chunk of bread and a watered-down broth. You were all living under tyranny — one you hoped to topple. Only if fucking Marcus Acacius was not such a tight cunt, you would be closer to your goal.

It wasn’t for your lack of trying though. Every night you were as suggestive as you could, considering how many pairs of eyes were watching you — enemies’ and allies’ alike. The first lusting after you, wondering if you were a whore who could warm up their bed at night, and the second curious about what game you were up to. Not many people were privy to your plan.

“Ah, ye ogre! You scared the shit out of me,” you chuckled, hand on pounding heart, when you turned around to face him.

Cormag’s thick brows knitted together, his big, round nose red with rage.

“I told you I didn’t want to see you around here until at least tomorrow,” he barked, arms folded with disapproval.

“Come on, Cormag. I’ll work tonight and then—”

“Nay, I don’t want to hear it. You are not working tonight. You’ve worked the last eight nights in a row,” he said between gritted teeth. “I want you to go home to Bonnie and rest.”

You huffed, now your turn to cross arms.

“I need no rest. I am fresh as a daisy, couldn’t be better,” you lied through your teeth.

The reality was you were knackered. You had been helping out in the kitchens day and night, much to Cormag’s despair. If you were not doing a stock check, you were shuffling stuff around for the next meal or cleaning after those filthy, mannerless soldiers. And you were the savages, the cheek they had was beyond you.

“Don’t bullshit me, I can see right through it. Those grey circles under your eyes are screaming for some sleep,” he replied, getting closer to you.

His heavy hands landed on your shoulders, forcing you to turn around and pushing you towards the door. You resisted, digging your heels into the cobblestone.

“Cormag, mas e do thoil e (please)! If I go home, I’m just going to get bored. I need something to occupy my mind with,” you pleaded with him, but he was deaf as a rock to your request.

“The whole point of sleeping is to empty your mind, not to occupy it with something,” he stopped dragging you once you were through the arch.

Sleep had evaded you since your whole family had been murdered. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Marcus’ gladius sinking in your father’s belly, your brothers’ and sister’s intertwined arms as they burnt to ashes, your mother’s mangled body while the Earth swallowed her whole. As if you didn’t have enough demons as it was, tragedy had knocked on your door once more — unannounced, greedy even.

You spun around, flashing your eyelashes at him, puppy eyes and all. Cormag just shook his head no, unwavering, and pointed towards the corridor that would lead you outside.

“I want you out of my sight for one day, fear beag (little one). Humour me, I beg you,” it was almost a prayer, but you knew Cormag did not have one sanctified bone in his body.

“Okay, just one night. But I’ll be back tomorrow!” You shouted over your shoulder, a proper threat, as you sauntered towards the hall.

It was still the early evening, but the courtyard was brimming with life. There were a few legionaries dotted around, swords at the ready. They seemed to train late into the night before they burst in into the great hall to eat and drink like gluttons.

As your feet slithered through the wet grass, you suddenly felt a heavy pair of eyes on you. Brown, beautiful— no, dreadful eyes, you were sure. You didn’t need to look to know that Marcus was watching your every step — your body burnt hot every time he would study you with so much intensity.

And he was doing that again, just now. You debated whether to lock eyes on him or not, but it was a lost fight. Soon enough, your green orbs located him in his black and golden armour walking towards the keep, mud up to his knees and a wild look on his face. One you had not seen before — a crack in his steadfast façade.

Your brows slightly furrowed, almost coming to a halt, while you tried to understand what was different. Then you saw it: his sword was stained with blood. He was not coming back from training, but… from battle? Your heartrate spiked; your eyes slightly widened as your fingers clutched a fist of your long skirt.

What battle? What had happened? What was going on? Who had he hurt? Did you know them? Had you lost someone dear? Was death knocking at your door once more?

You tamed your features as he approached, putting on your best act as you calmed down your quick breathing. His eyes never left yours, not while he walked from the portcullis to the keep, not once.

As he got to where you were, he nodded in your direction, as if to say, “don’t worry, I’m okay.” You then understood he mistook your concern, thinking it was for him. Oh, how wrong he was… You were not worried about him in the slightest, but about whoever succumbed to his sword.

As soon as he and his retinue disappeared into the keep, you bunched your skirt up and started running towards the village, dreading what you might find there.

Five minutes later, you were in the town’s square. A crowd was gathered around the stone well. The shrieking cry of a mother cradling his dead son pierced through the silence, boring into your heart.

“My wee lad, mo mhac (my son)!” Her screams formed a knot in your throat, one so tight you feared you could not breath.

You forged your way through the multitude, finding the woman on her knees, hugging her son close to her chest. You knew them — you knew everyone in your lands, if not by face, by name at least. These you knew by face and name.

Torcall was standing right behind her, blood on his clothes indicating he had been the one bringing the lad back for his mother to mourn.

Torcall’s sombre expression prevented you from saying anything, even when you looked at him for answers. He just shook his head no and turned around to speak to a young man. You quickly recognised him too, Dòmhnall — son to the grieving woman, brother to the deceased boy. Dòmhnall nodded to Torcall’s words and vanished.

Torcall made his way towards you and pushed you aside.

“What the fuck is going on, Torcall?”

“People are growing restless, Callie. The Romans were by the firth, training in the murky waters. Some lads saw Acacius alone for one second and thought they could take him,” he didn’t need to explain what the outcome had been.

“What were they thinking? Taking on the General? How old were they?”

“Around ten and five. When Acacius killed the boy, his friends panicked, dragged him out and retreated. I found them in the woods. The others were lucky to escape alive,” Torcall sighed heavily and so did you.

“We all need to be careful here. We’ve got to play the long game. Once we have enough information from them, then we can start planning some skirmishes to diminish their numbers, but not before,” you pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration as you both walked towards Bonnie’s.

“People don’t listen to reason when they feel threatened,” he looked at you askance, then back down to his feet, momentarily lost in thought. “You need to speak to some people, let the rumour spread that you’re working towards freedom — otherwise they’ll feel like they’ve been forgotten, and rightfully so. Let people know that they will need to be ready to fight when you command them. Give them some hope, something to look forward to.”

You didn’t want to show your hand too early, but Torcall was partially right. If this continued, if people tried to get their own justice, it would end up being more tragic than what ought to be. You could not endure more senseless loss of life, your clansmen dying for naught.

Your plan was so clear in your head, a simple to-do list —gain Marcus’ trust, kill off his army little by little, then finish him once he was the last man standing— but yet you hoped effective. If someone deviated, if someone betrayed you, then it would all be over way too soon. And you would end up like your mother — left for dead, hung in a cage off the keep as if you were a rat exposed to the elements.

“My athair’s retinue are already in the know,” you thought out loud, lips pouting with doubt. “But I did make them swear they would not tell a soul.”

Torcall propped open the wooden door to Bonnie’s crannog, the creaking noise welcoming you to the only home you knew now.

“I’ll go speak to my cousins, Seumas and Anndra, tomorrow. I know how eager they are to start a war, so this might appease them. I don’t want people up in arms just yet, we’ll wait for the Romans to be at their lowest,” you whispered back to him.

“Uhm, maybe—” Torcall’s voice got drown by the ones of his children.

“Auntaidh, auntaidh (auntie)!”The synchronised cacophony of your niece and nephew swept away part of the guilt you were feeling, forcing a wide smile onto your lips.

“I don’t think she’s here tonight, Marcus,” Maximus jest made his head turn to his direction.

With a cocked brow, Marcus feigned ignorance, the wooden fork in his hand mindlessly pushing around a lone meatball on his plate.

“Who?” He asked, as if neither of them knew who Maximus was referring to.

Your presence in the great hall every night had become a welcomed sight, one he had grown used to over the last few days. Not because it was soothing, but because it caused havoc. That was what he welcomed — someone who was not taken aback by his presence, someone who would hold his gaze and wouldn’t fold, someone who would shamelessly say his first name the way you said it nine nights ago.

And if he was entirely honest with himself, he also welcomed your advances. Not that he was showing it, but every taunting Dux Meus (my General/Leader/God), every suggestive glance, every time you touched him, his skin would set ablaze. It was just a harmless game, as long as it remained just that. He was here to do a job, and nothing should get in the way of that — even if a red-haired, green-eyed nymph tempted him down the path of infidelity.

How hypocritical of him to think of all the things he would do to you if given the chance, when he despised his wife for doing exactly that.

“What was her name? Connie? Charlie?” Maximus tapped his chin with one finger, pretending to think.

“Callie,” Marcus bit the bait without realising.

“Ah, yes. Callie. How could you forget when the poor woman has been throwing herself at you for more than a week now and you have given her nothing in return?” The commander observed with an ample grin. “Have you claimed her yet? Fucked her?”

His whole body went rigid with rage at Maximus’ provocation. Sometimes he hated his friendship with him, the liberties he took even though he was above the man in the command chain. If it wasn’t because there were still people on the dais, Marcus would have punched him square in the jaw to shut him up.

Instead, his eyes darted to his friend’s with a dark warning in them. Maximus laughed it off, leaning back on his chair and looking at him with a mischievous smile.

“I’ll take that as a no then. I bet she’s tired of being ignored and that’s why she’s not here tonight. Maybe she’s fucking one of your legionaries in the barracks right now. Damn, maybe I’ll do that myself—”

“Are you fucking done?” He interrupted, the legs of his chair screeching as he dragged it backwards to stand up.

“Have I touched a nerve now?” Maximus’ smile just grew bigger as he stood up too, palming Marcus’ shoulder. “I’m just messing with you, old friend. Helping you, actually. You need to get laid, clear your mind of war for one night. Your hair is greyer now than what it was a month ago.”

“I don’t need your advice nor your teasing. It may be all fun and games to you, but there’s a lot on the line here,” Marcus sneered as they walked down the corridor formed by cheery and drunk soldiers sat at their tables.

He wasn’t worried about his reputation but all the debts he owed. Not him, specifically, but his wife. The lush life she led at home would ruin him eventually.

Maximus’ demeanour changed, hands laced on his back and head bowed down in deep thought.

“I know what’s at stake, Marcus. We all are doing what we can to find the instigator,” only then Marcus realised that Maximus was talking about the attempt on his life that afternoon. “Valerius’ henchman was able to follow the boy into the forest. He’s definitely dead.”

He said it as if it was good news, but that death would haunt Marcus at night. It had been just a boy, probably not more than ten and six, who had met his fate at his sword. Marcus had tried to keep him at bay, but when the boy lunged forwards with a small knife on his hand, he basically impaled himself on the gladius Marcus was holding to ward him off.

“Good to hear,” he replied with a flat, lacking voice.

Maximus angled his head, then shook it.

“Good night, Marcus. I’ll let you know if I see your Callie entertaining the men in the barracks,” Maximus waved him goodbye, light-heartedly.

“Sod off,” he rolled his eyes, before turning the corner.

A tiny part of him wanted to go after his friend and check himself, make sure you were not fucking another man.

That thought made him frown. What you did or didn’t do was none of his business. In fact, you were a free woman and could do as you pleased. Even if that meant you were not pleasing him.

You threw the saddle on Kelpie’s back — she was your late mother’s horse. The horse was as black as coal with a shiny, short coat. She was a young one, so still needed a fair amount of training — at least, she was properly socialised. Mòrag had died before she could train her newest addition. This horse was, most probably, the closest you would ever be to your màthair (mother).

The mare neighed loudly when you tried to adjust the saddle on her belly and moved around nervously, trotting in place to put distance between you two. You shushed her, caressing her muzzle and chin groove.

“Shh, shhh… It’s okay, àlainn (lovely). I see you don’t like that, do you?” You whispered in a calming manner until the mare quietened down.

You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against hers and then placed a gentle kiss on the bridge of Kelpie’s nose before reaching towards her back to remove the untied saddle.

“Barebacking it is then,” the idea didn’t thrill you, but you didn’t fancy walking all the way to Bun Craobh (Bunchrew).

That morning you had gone out to the barn to speak to Anndra and Seumas, only to find out they were no longer there. When you went back into the crannog, Bonnie mentioned they had left the morning prior. Something about a carpentry job in the next town over required their attention, or that was they had told their mother.

You had a nagging feeling that wasn’t true. The siblings were ardent defenders of your family, so you knew they would not stand idly. What brought them to Bun Craobh though, you were not sure but intended on finding out.

You led Kelpie out of the stables and into the courtyard of your castle. You hoped no one would notice you sneaking out with a horse that allegedly didn’t belong to you, but you were obviously out of luck — had been for a while now.

“Hey, puella (young lady)! Where do you think you’re going with that horse?” One of the roman soldiers cut you off, hands on hips and a deep frown. You recognised him from sitting on the dais with Marcus, although you didn’t know his name.

You cursed him under your breath, but composed a sweet smile, when you just wanted to knee his balls and run past him.

“I’m in need of a horse. We are out of some herbs and spices in the kitchens, so I was going to visit the town’s healer…” You explained with your eyes averted down and fingers laced in front of you.

“I’ll take care of this, Cassius,” Marcus appeared on his back, a heavy, broad and very masculine hand landing on the shoulder of the man in front of you.

For a brief second, you saw a flicker of disgust in his eyes, but Cassius quickly masked it with a deferent nod before walking away. Your eyes followed him, curious as to what you had just seen. Did Cassius despise Marcus? Why?

“Where are you going, Callie?” The General’s deep, throaty voice made you look in his direction.

For a second, you got lost in his chocolate eyes — there was an almost imperceptible sadness in them, a tinge of regret that seemed to haunt him every day and every night. How could that possibly be when he dispatched people to their deaths so mindlessly, so effortlessly?

“Cormag needs some bits for his cooking, Dux Meus,” you explained again, and there it was.

His irises darkened with the last two words, the sadness transforming into something else — liquid darkness. You held his gaze, hypnotised by how the desire rapidly kicked the sadness out of him. And you knew he was holding onto every bit of his control, taming his body not to react to your words — but his eyes he could not govern. They were a window to his lust.

You fought with your own craving. The way he stared at you made your skin run hot as ember and slick pool in your slit. You had been wondering what it would feel like to be fucked raw by a man like Marcus Acacius; you had even fantasized about it a few nights.

An donas dubh (dammit)! If it wasn’t for how crowded Bonnie’s crannog was, you would have even touched yourself to the thought of him plunging in and out between your thighs.

That idea was so foreign to you, it took you aback.

“Is that okay?” His question lingered; Marcus’ head tilted with knitting brows.

You looked at him doe eyed as you came out of your wet haze. Fuck, stop imagining things, he’s right there talking to you! You reprimanded yourself before blinking a few times to clear your mind.

“I-I’m sorry, Dominus (Master)?” The slight stammer in your voice was not faked this time around.

“I said I’ll accompany you to wherever you need to go. It’s not safe out there, even less so for a lonely maid serving the Romans,” he repeated.

That offer shocked you because you were not expecting such gallantry from him. You also had to smother a snicker — you were not at risk of anything, this was your land, your people. But Marcus did not know that.

“Oh, it’s not necessary, my lord. I know my way around—”

“I insist. Please,” he added, his fists curled on his sides.

If the look in his eyes indicated anything, that would be that Marcus Acacius would not accept no for an answer. And that would mess your whole itinerary up, because you could not take him to Bun Craobh, in case your cousins were really planning something. Now you would really have to go to Naimh’s new cottage, even though that was not your plan at all.

“Awright, aye,” you conceded, an unwilling smile crooking your lips.

“I didn’t see you last night in the great hall,” Marcus broke the surprisingly comfortable silence.

He was riding on your left and you couldn’t help but turn your head to watch him. So, your efforts were going somewhere at last. For eight nights you had been on his heels, serving him as if that was what you were born to do. Your attempts at seducing him began to be so obvious, you could hear the other maids giggling to themselves every time you leaned over his shoulder, offering him a clear sight of your generous cleavage.

Even his soldiers had noticed. You had been so obvious, other men thought you were a pleasure woman and that was invitation enough for some of them to try and reach for your ass whenever you approached their tables. Disgusting behaviour, but you had to laugh your way out of it and slap some hands so no one would take offense at your rejection.

“Cormag would not let me work again. I really wanted to be there though,” you said truthfully, watching him in the corner of your eye.

Marcus straightened his back, as if suddenly uncomfortable, and studied your surroundings.

It was still early afternoon, but it seemed to be later due to the thick tree canopy above you. You were travelling westward through the dense forest that neared Beauly Firth. Naimh had moved to a crannog in the road to Bun Craobh after her home in Loch Moy had been burnt to ashes. Thankfully, she had not been home when it happened. A small win in your book.

“I see. He worries about you,” he noted, jaw tight as he spoke.

“Aye, he’s like a father to me,” that old git really was. “I should be back to work tomorrow.”

“Good,” he replied without even thinking and you knew he did not intend to say that out loud. “I mean, you’re one of the few people who speak Latin. It’s hard to communicate with the rest,” Marcus added swiftly to veil his slip of tongue.

You smiled to yourself, realising this was the first time you two were alone, away from prying eyes.

“You only need to ask, Marcus,” you whispered, your voice charged with the right hint of suggestion and provocation.

His neck snapped in your direction at your words.

“Ask what?”

He knew exactly what. The man was stubborn as a mule, playing hard to get. But he was not immune to your advances, as much as he wanted to conceal his lust for you.

“You know what,” was your simple answer before spurring Kelpie on with the heels of your leather shoes.

You spotted a small hut between some trees off the main path, that had to be the crannog that Naimh had found in her search for a new home. You had seen that cottage a few times before, always abandoned and eerie — legend said that was where the wisps would lead you at night.

Kelpie sprinted towards it, and you heard Marcus’ horse neigh a few feet behind you. You needed to act fast before good ol’ Naimh gave you away and revealed your identity. So, the moment you dismounted and Naimh was under the frame of the main door, you threw your arms around her neck.

She was a fragile woman in her late sixties, white hair and wrinkling skin. Her nose a tad too prominent, her lips wide and big, slanted eyes. She was tiny too, with a crouched back that made her look even smaller.

“Naimh!” You exclaimed excitedly, and then whispered in her ear in Gaelic, “He doesn’t know who I am. Call me Callie, play along, please.”

The old woman stilled and then patted your back in understanding.

“Ah, my sweet Callie, so good to see you. I started to think you’d forgotten about this old crone. This how you treat the elderly?” She spoke in your native language, which meant Marcus would not understand a word.

“He doesn’t understand, Naimh, you don’t need to put on the best act of your life, just be mindful of my name,” you sniggered, holding her hands with both of yours. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“So have I, leannan (darling), so have I,” she squeezed your hands before dropping hers to her sides, her eyes squinting with a bit of hatred.

Marcus cleared his throat, standing right behind you. You stepped aside.

“General, this is Naimh, our town’s healer. Naimh, this is General Acacius,” you introduced them in Latin, although you were sure Naimh did not understand much.

“My pleasure,” he bowed his head slightly while Naimh stared him down as if he was a snake trying to steal the eggs off her nest.

The old woman just grunted and walked back inside, not responding to his pleasantry.

Shrugging, you looked at Marcus.

“Don’t mind her too much, she’s not really fond of anyone,” that much was true.

“She’s fond of you,” he pointed out with a raised brow.

“Well, yeah, that’s because I pester her a lot. I can be very insisting.”

“You definitely are,” he muttered under his breath, not intended for your ears, but you heard that.

With a sufficient grin, you turned on your heels and got inside the crannog with Marcus right behind you.

By the time you were done with the visit, it was almost pitch-black outside. The weather, as everything in the Highlands, had turned too — it was dreich and drizzling, a light, damp mist hanging low, close to the ground.

You attached the thread of the little hemp sack around your waist as you waved goodbye to Naimh. She had given you an assortment of different spices she had stocked up: wild mountain thyme, dried pepper dulse and coriander grass. You were not sure if Cormag needed them, but you had to keep up with the lie in Marcus’ presence.

Both horses were lazily grazing around. They looked so different—Marcus’ white as a quartz, yours black as obsidian—they reminded you of how opposite you both were. Ironic, really, that the mare and the stallion were now approaching each other and rubbing necks.

“Kelpie,” you called her. Your mother’s horse barely looked at you, too busy grooming the back of Marcus’ horse with her teeth. “Hey!”

Kelpie almost brayed like a donkey, showing her annoyance, before she cantered towards you with a loud neigh.

“Oi, calm down. We’ve got to go back,” you asked of her, grabbing the reins.

“Kelpie? That’s an unusual name,” Marcus said while he jumped onto his horse’s back graciously.

Your mother had let you choose the name when it was first born, in one of your last visits to your family home as a married woman. A brief respite shared with Mòrag where you had forgotten who you were married to — you had spent the whole afternoon coming up with uncommon names and had finally settled for Kelpie.

“It’s a creature that inhabits lochs. They are shape-shifting spirits that usually take the form of a black horse,” you explained as you managed to get on top of the mare. A difficult task, considering there was no saddle to hold onto. “Some people say they are evil because they prey on us. They drag their victims into the water, devour them, and throw the entrails to the water's edge, so they can lure their next casualty. I think that’s just survival. There is no treachery in their nature.”

By the time you had finished talking, you were by Marcus’ side. His eyebrows almost touched each other, and you wondered if he had picked on your cutting remark about treachery. Whether he did or not, you did not know.

“Are they just stories to scare children away from deep water or are they real?” He questioned after a deliberating minute as both of your horses resumed the path ahead.

“I have never seen a kelpie myself, but I know folk who have perished to them,” you shrugged, the image of dismembered bodies by Loch Ness coming back to you. “It’s not a pretty picture.”

“I bet. Your people seem to have many stories about lurking creatures. I have seen the tapestries telling the story of the dragon-like monster living in the lake nearby,” he said with a pinch of incredulity in his voice.

“Loch. We call them lochs, not lakes,” you corrected him.

“Sorry, loch,” he said back with a soft ch, head cocked towards you. It was a good attempt.

“And that would be Nessie. She’s a staple around here, everyone loves her,” you joked. “She’s a Kelpie, but one which transforms into some sort of dragon. I’m not sure though, never seen her myself. But if you ever speak to Cormag, he’ll tell you all about her. Best mates they are, so he says.”

As soon as you spoke of the cook, you realised your mistake. You were talking too much, telling him all about a land he hated, a land he wanted to steal from you. A land he would destroy along with all its people. There was no point in explaining to him all about what made Caledonia special if he was here to wreck your life.

“The cook?” He pressed and you simply nodded, remaining silent.

For ten minutes neither of you talked. Weirdly, the silence was not ever bothersome. You didn’t have the need to fill it, and neither did he.

Until he did.

“My stud’s name is Faun,” he muttered, resuming the dead conversation where you had left it.  The stallion’s ears perked up at the sound of his name. “They are half-human, half-goat creatures. They inhabit forests like this back home. Some say they instil fear in travelling men and drive them to madness, others say they can guide you to safety. Never encountered one myself either.”

You turned your head around to glance at him. His story was strangely similar to yours, just adapted to his own beliefs. How could two very different people share something so unique as your love for mythical creatures?

“They sound beautiful. And before you judge me for saying that… beauty is on the eye of the beholder,” you added with a mellow laugh. You found goats endearing.

Marcus’ serious expression softened. ���Evil or not, I do think they are too.”

Your eyes locked for an eternal second and you wondered why there was an unfamiliar feeling sitting low in your belly.

A split second was all it took to make you snap out of whatever brief connection you suddenly felt.

You heard the whistling sound before you saw the arrow sticking out of Marcus’ left shoulder, in that unprotected spot where the shoulder pad met the breastplate. The arrow had flown just a few inches away from your ear.

Marcus’ eyes widened as reality settled in. Out of nowhere, three men emerged from the woods, face painted with soot—the whites of their eyes sparkled under the full moon.

The sudden movement scared off Kelpie, who harshly stirred around and started galloping towards the trees with no regard for her rider—you. You managed to hold on to the low branches of the trees, Kelpie slipping from between your thighs as the mare ran towards safety alone, leaving you hanging from a branch.

The clink of metal behind you forced you to let go of the branch, landing on your feet like a graceful cat. When you turned around, you saw that Marcus had dismounted Faun. His stud, at least, had not abandoned his rider to the mercy of his enemies the same way your mare had. Little traitorous horse.

“Get back!” Marcus shouted at you as he repositioned his body between you and the threat of the threesome.

But they were no threat to you, you were sure. They were here to kill him. The same way some fucking kids had tried to end him that very afternoon. Were people plain, thick gòrach (stupid)?

“People are growing restless,” Torcall had said to you yesterday. So much so they would endanger you too? Your cover? What were you supposed to do now?

If you helped them and Marcus survived, you would be dead before dawn, your cover blown.

If you helped them and Marcus died, Agricola would appoint a new man in Marcus’ stead. One that might not fit well into your plan. And you would be hunted down too.

If you helped him and they survived, they would go back to your folk and tell them all how you betrayed them, how you turned against them — how you protected the General.

If you helped him and they died… Your conscience would be tainted forever.

Or you could do nothing — let destiny run its course. The General deserved to die for what he had done to your family; it was actually only fair. But Marcus needed to be killed off at the right time — not sooner nor later. Just right, as a pig hung for slaughter on the first days of winter.

As the Romans would say, Alea iacta est (the dice is cast).

“Caileag fealltach (traitorous lass)!” One of the men screeched before leaping on you, sgian-dubh (small knife) on his left and a longer sword on his right hand.

The raucous sound of steel colliding sparked life back into you. Marcus’ gladius had curbed the attack. And with a thundering flourish of his sword, the edge of it hit the man’s side with deadly precision. The attacker crumbled to his knees, a fountain of blood varnishing the grass underneath.

“Mac na galla (son of a bitch), I’ll have your head for this!” The taller man cowed in Gàidhlig.

Marcus’ hand pushed you back — unbeknownst to you, you had taken a few steps forward, wanting to say something, anything to stop this madness.

Marcus and his opponent exchanged a few strident blows. Despite the General being substantially older than his adversary, his movements were more gracious, trained, measured, while the other man’s were sloppy and directionless. It was only a matter of minutes until one of them tired out, and your bet, regrettably, was on your clansman.

“What is a lass like you doing with a man like him? Are you his whore or what? Have you no shame, woman?” The recriminatory voice of the last man came to you in your mother tongue, albeit a slightly different accent.

He had swerved towards you while Marcus was distracted with the other man, too focused on the dance of swords. You were unarmed, this fight you would not win.

Your kinsman’s sword swayed in front of you, and you managed to jump back, avoiding the blade by a mere inch. Your eyes shot back to his, back slightly crouched, trying to predict his next movement.

A malicious smirk appeared on your opponent’s lips, as if he was enjoying himself.

“I’m going to send you to fucking Dubnos (Hell), so you can rot there with the low-lives you get involved with,” the threat was not veiled.

He lunged forward and you dropped to the floor — eyeing the dead man’s blood-soaked sgian-dubh, you grabbed it and held it close to your chest.

“I don’t think so. I don’t want to kill you, please,” you almost begged him between gritted teeth as you dragged yourself back a few feet, slowly getting up as Marcus’ fight unfolded fifteen yards away from where you stood.

A brief glance in his direction told you he was holding up alright, just as you knew he would. You had seen him in a sword fight before — your father had died because of it. Because of him.

“Kill me? You?” he laughed out loud. “You’re just a sad, little, useless woman. What do you think you can do to me? Bet the closest you have ever been to a knife is in a kitchen, where you fucking belong. There and warming up some man’s bed, but not his,” he barked back, almost looming over you.

What he just said struck you as odd. Did this man not know how many battles you had fought besides your father, your entire family, to protect your land, your clan?

You could not recognise him under all the soot, his hair tied back and covered in mud in a pretty good attempt at concealing his identity.

Before you could question him, he lunged forwards.

“Callie, no!” You heard Marcus’ call, a note of fear sullying his words.

An acute relief washed over him when the man in front of you fell to his knees, laying at your feet. A big, burgundy stain tarnished your blue dress around your belly area. A bloody knife was firm on your steady hand, your eyes devoid of emotion — had you done this before? Impossible, he thought to himself, she’s just a maid.

The relief just grew in his tight chest when your eyes locked with his. But what he saw in them caught him off guard — fear?

“Marcus!”

Then he felt it. The ripping of skin, the sinking of metal through flesh, then a few twists of the knife rearranging his guts for good measure — then warmth. Sticky, wet warmth soaking the woollen tunic underneath his armour.

“Die, bastard,” his attacker whispered in his ear, the words strangely clear to him.

Marcus’ eyes quickly drifted down to see one of those small knives the barbarians used, sunken down to its hilt on the left-hand side of his lower abdomen, right under his lorica. He didn’t feel the pain, not just yet — just rage.

He had disarmed his rival but blundered. He shouldn’t have, but the moment he realised you were no longer behind him, he frantically searched his surroundings to find you quite a few feet away from him, from his protection. He thought you dead when he saw you so close to that man, almost entrapped in an intimate embrace. Turned out, you could protect yourself alright.

His left fingers followed the red river dripping onto the ground, almost mesmerised by the sight of his own thick blood.

Snapping out of his trance and with shock still holding him upright, he effortlessly swung his sword — the other man eyeing him with fright, realising those were his last seconds on this worldly plane.

The head of the last man standing rolled off his shoulders and hit the ground with a sharp thud.

“No, Marcus, no! Don’t pull it out,” you whispered into his neck, your fingers wrapping around his on the hilt of the knife.

When did you bridge the distance? How were you so close? He hadn’t heard you. At all.

His mind went numb as more blood poured from his body, his speech slurred as his grasp on consciousness became looser by the minute.

“I need to—,” he mumbled, brows frowned and fingers tighter.

“No, you’ll bleed out. Please, listen to me. If you want to live, don’t fucking touch it,” your sweary prayer finally reached him, and he loosened up the grip on the knife. “Shite. Faun! Fucking shite, Faun! Come, boy, come!” He barely saw you waving down his horse — his sight going too.

Marcus fought to stay afloat, but the waves were relentless, bigger than him, pushing him down to the seabed. He was drowning.

“Can you— Fuck, Marcus, can you jump?”

He looked at you confused, then in front of him. Faun was standing right there, waiting for him to hop onto his back. His hand held on to the saddle but couldn’t bring himself up.

“Ad genua (to your knees), Faun,” he muttered in Latin, and the stallion knelt almost instantly.

“Thank the fucking gods he’s trained be…” Marcus didn’t hear the last of your sentence as he plummeted on top of Faun, the knife and arrow sinking further in his flesh.

If it wasn’t for his impending death, you would have been relieved when Marcus fainted.

“…trained better than my mother’s mare,” was how you ended your sentence. One that would have fucked your whole plan up. And your life too.

“Fuck, this is bad. Really bad,” you muttered to yourself frantically as you sat down on the saddle.

You pushed Marcus’ body up, making him sit upright facing you with his heavy, manly thighs over yours — your knees pressing hard around Faun’s back to keep your balance as the stud stood up. You cradled Marcus’ cheeks and lightly patted him.

“Marcus. Hey, wake up,” you whispered, uprooting no reaction from him whatsoever. “Fuck, I said wake up!” You slapped him harder this time, the sound ricocheting on the trees and the palm of your hand itchy — it shouldn’t given the circumstances, but smacking him felt damn good.

The General groaned but didn’t open his eyes. With your right forearm pressed against his chest, your fingers wrapped around the arrow on his left shoulder. With as much care as you could and trying not to wiggle the arrow, you snapped the shaft at the hafting with the help of your left hand.

Marcus did not complain, so he had to be really out of it right now. You let him lean forward with his sweaty forehead lodged in the crook of your neck — way too close for comfort. You detested his proximity, but your body had a mind of its own. His warm breath fanning your skin made your hair stand.

Not the fucking time.

“Focus, dammit,” you summoned all your strength.

You were closer to Naimh’s crannog than to the Inbhir Nis’ fortress. You did not know what other threats lied ahead and Marcus was in dire need of help — you could feel his blood dripping onto the saddle, staining Faun’s white coat. Naimh would have everything you required to patch him up and her hut was well hidden.

You looked in both directions, Faun patiently awaiting your command. You veered the reins to the left.

“Hyah, hyah!” You compelled the stallion with a subtle kick of your heels.

Faun darted forward, fast as a wildcat, and you wrapped your arm around Marcus’ waist to prevent him from falling sideways to the ground.

It only took you ten minutes to get to Naimh’s again. You reined Faun back and he came to a sudden stop just a couple of feet away from the door.

“Ad genua,” you said to the horse, remembering the General’s command, and Faun knelt.

By that point, Marcus’ mind was very far away. You threaded your arms under his and  dragged him all to the crannog. There was a red trickle all the way from the saddle to where you were now.

“Fuck,” with the heel of your foot, you kicked Naimh’s door. “Naimh, it’s me, open up!”

You heard the rustling of her feet as she sauntered towards the door, swinging it open. With your back towards her, you could not see her expression, but you bet on shock.

“Obh obh (oh dear), what’s happened? Are you hurt?” You could tell Naimh was extremely worried.

“I’m fine. Him… well, not so much. We’ve been attacked. I don’t know who sent those men, but they were out for blood,” you explained as you hauled him back inside.

Thank the gods you were strong enough to grab him by his shoulders and lay him down on Naimh’s bed.

“Did you recognise them?” She asked while searching for her healing kit — a basket with a sharp, small knife, some eyed needles made of bone, wool thread and a few different species of fresh plants and herbs.

“No, I didn’t. They covered their faces in soot and their hair with mud, I could barely tell they were human,” you omitted the fact that you had to stab one of them to death to keep your cover intact and also to save yourself. Naimh was a healer, she would not understand having to take someone else’s life voluntarily.

You, on the other hand, were used to it.

Your hands worked faster than your brain — you grabbed the knife and cut Marcus’ tunic, from the edge of the skirt to his hip, so you would have better access to the wound on his lower abdomen. That was the one which was profusely bleeding, while the arrowhead seemed to block the wound enough so it wouldn’t bleed too.

You focused your eyes on the wound and not on his almost-exposed lap. You had a job to do if you wanted him to survive this. Not wanted really, you needed him to survive for now, so he could die at the right time.

You pressed the injury with your left hand, the protruding blade lodged between your middle and index fingers, and then pulled curtly from the hilt of the sgian-dubh.

Marcus’ eyes flew wide open, a restrained groan ripping his throat. His hand tightly wrapped around your wrist, his arched back slightly off the straw cushion. His orbs were wild with pain — the veins on his neck chiselled on his skin, so pronounced you thought they would explode. You kept the pressure on the wound while pushing him back down onto the bed.

“It’s okay. Relax, I’ve got you,” you tried to calm him down. His big, brown eyes studied you, considering if he should trust you with his life. His fingers were so solidly wrapped around your wrist, you were sure he was restricting your bloodflow. “You have no other option. It’s me or whatever god of the dead you praise,” you muttered, holding his gaze.

With a painful grunt, he let go of your wrist and settled back down. His jaw was so clenched, you were almost worried he would break a tooth.

“Naimh, bring me a stick of wood or something for him to chew on while I stitch him up. And some wine,” you asked of the old woman.

Soon enough you had everything you needed. You offered the woodstick to Marcus, who quickly understood what it was for and opened his mouth. You placed it between his teeth and he bit down on it.

You quickly removed the heel of your hand from the seeping gash and poured wine over it to disinfect it. Marcus hissed in pain, muffled by the stick he was chewing. You patted the area with a rag to clean it and then extended your hand towards Naimh, palm up. She had already threaded the eyed needle.

“This is going to hurt,” you warned him before piercing the first layer of skin.

You focused on the task at hand, blocking out any distractions. The needle was not the sharpest, so you had to really puncture the skin to get it through to the other side — you were sure that Marcus hated every bone of yours every time the blunt tip of the needle stroked his skin.

The wound was very deep, probably too deep for sutures, but you had no other alternative. His attacker had really intended on gutting him like a cow — the skin was ripped around the edges, as if the man had twisted the blade several times once it had already sunk in Marcus’ flesh.

By the time you were done, it still looked gnarly, but at least it wasn’t bleeding so much now. You had been so absorbed in your doing, you had not realised that Marcus had fainted again — probably a combination of blood loss and pain had sent him straight to Aengus’ embrace, God of Dreams.

You knew he was completely unconscious when you pulled the arrow out of his shoulder and followed the same procedure with not a single complaint from him. The starred scar would heal better than the butchering on his tummy. You were no expert, but at least you gave him a fighting chance.

“Naimh, could you prepare one of your concoctions, please? We need to cover the wounds and aid the healing process. Otherwise it’s going to become infected,” you asked while packing away the stuff you had used off her basket.

You saw her shuffling some shelves in search of specific ingredients and let her do her job. After putting away the basket, you walked back to the bed Marcus was splayed on.

What a fucking sight.

The lorica still covered his torso, but you had removed the shoulder plates to have better access to the arrow. The tunic underneath the cuirass that hung from his waist down was ripped apart — you had to so you could patch him up. Just a few inches away, you knew, was the core of his manhood.

You wondered… Better not to dwell there for long.

Then there were his hairy, thick thighs, and a pair of leather sandals plaited around his muscular calves. The man’s anatomy spoke of power, vigour, strength.

Most of his visible skin, along with the tunic and armour, was stained in dry, scarlet blood. The picture in front of you, although suggestive, was gruesome, bordering on sadistic. So, you definitely should not feel the way you did — curious, too curious.

“Here,” Naimh’s offering brought you back. “Apply this to the wounds, should keep any festering at bay.”

“Tapadh leibh a Naimh (thank you),” you thanked her, taking the mortar from her hands.

The mixture looked gooey and greenish — pretty regular, considering there was a ton of aloe vera in it.

“Do you want me to send word to the castle, mo bana-phrionnsa (my princess)?”, she offered, placing a little, fragile hand on your shoulder.

“Aye, if you don’t mind,” a brief pause to jog your memory. “Make sure it reaches Maximus, and Maximus only,” you added.

That commander seemed to be the closest thing to a friend Marcus had here. You had seen them on the dais, exchanging whispers and jests in a brotherly manner. Surely he would be someone Marcus would trust with his life.

“Na gabh dragh, measag (don’t worry, dear). You know my will-o'-wisps only reach those who I command them to,” her voice lowered, a sweet grin painted on her wrinkling face before vanishing through the door.

You knew Naimh came from a long bloodline of druids and sorceresses — she could be found attending to the coirtheachan (standing stones), ensuring they were clean with oblations left at their feet, speaking to animals and trees, or lighting fires with the mere snap of her fingers. Once, as a child, you saw how a wave of her hand over the flames made some sparks flicker away from the bonfire and dance through the air until they disappeared between some trees. The first wisps you had ever seen.

So when Naimh spoke of her will-o’-wisps, you did not question her one bit. You were one hundred percent sure that the message would get to Maximus in record time.

Your attention drifted back to the unconscious man on the bed. You needed to do something about the deplorable state he was in.

His eyelids were so heavy, his mind so foggy, Marcus was not able to open them just yet. Coming back to his senses would take all the strength he had left and that wasn’t much. His limbs felt weighty yet jelly-like too. How damn boorish of him if this was how he greeted death, unable to even shake hands with the Parcae (Fates).

A lifetime of bloodshed and war, and this was how his life would end, away from a real battlefield. What a shame.

His mind kept wandering and almost didn’t register a soft, velvety feeling on his right shin. It was warm and light, and it came and went like a gush of wind. That feeling, that touch, expanded to his thigh, his hip, his tummy, his chest. It was everywhere, right there on the confines on his imagination and on his damn skin.

Weird what the mind would come up with when on its last legs.

Slowly he drifted away again, and when Marcus came back to once more, he wasn’t sure how long it had been. Minutes. Hours. Days?

This time though, his senses flared alive. One more than the others — the sense of touch. The previous warmth, dry before, now was wet. It dripped and dripped, creating a river that ran down his thigh.

The heaviness that had him in a chokehold had softened, and so was able to move one hand, inspecting what that liquid warmth was. Blood?

“Don’t touch,” a firm yet soothing voice warned him.

Something wrapped around his wrist and placed his hand back down on the ground. No, not on the ground… on a bed?

After several attempts, Marcus managed to flutter his eyes open. White vision first, he blinked until the fog dissipated. And then he saw you there, sat by his side — inquiring, green eyes staring him down.

He held your gaze for what seemed like an eternity, while the memories flooded back. The arrow, the attackers, the sword fight, you stabbing that man to his death, the knife deeply lodged in his abdomen. The stitching, the painful stitching.

His eyes drifted down and only then did he realise that he was completely naked. Not even a thin piece of fabric covering him, no — absolutely, fucking nothing. Bare as the day he was fucking born.

Marcus’ eyes quickly shot to yours, his heart pounding wildly, as you held a damp rag on your hand.

“What the—,” he started to complain, his throat dry and coarse.

“No need to panic. I’m just washing the blood off you,” you explained matter-of-factly, unabashed even.

“My armour, my clothes…” was the only thing he managed to mutter.

“Your armour is now clean, and your clothes are drying over there in front of the hearth. I’ve washed them for you. You’re welcome,” you replied sneeringly, rolling your eyes, as you resumed what you were doing prior to being interrupted by his questioning.

You placed the rag back down on his inner thigh and rubbed, the dried blood coming off his skin albeit with some difficulty. Too fucking close to… Fuck, I rather fucking die. He stopped your hand again, teeth gritting.

“I can do this myself,” Marcus protested.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You think I’ve not seen a naked man before? I’m a widow, Marcus. You don’t have anything I have not seen before,” and then you scrubbed his skin some more, moving upwards and stopping just inches shy of his groin.

Marcus held his breath and closed his eyes, summoning all the self-control he could muster. He really had to focus to reign the most primal reaction a man could have when a woman was touching him. He pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose, jaw clenched, as he started counting backwards from one hundred.

The General needed a distraction — if he thought about your hand so damn close to his cock, he would fucking lose it. Would throw you onto that uncomfortable mattress and would fuck some sense into you for playing with fire. Teach you a lesson or two. Maybe three.

As soon as that thought formed, he had to put it out quickly. One would think that a near-death experience would knock some sense into him, but apparently not. He was a damned man.

Your hand moved around his lap languidly, expertly avoiding his not-so-soft-now dick, and focused on rubbing some blood off his lower abdomen. Then the damp rag moved further south, and his heart climbed up to this throat.

His eyes snapped back open, looking for yours, while his fingers gripped your wrist again.

“Is there no blood anywhere else?” his voice sounded strangled, begging almost, letting go of your hand.

“Nay, I’ve already cleaned the rest of your body. I was saving the best for last, Marcus,” you whispered at the same time the rag dragged along the length of his cock.

Then the palm of your hand flattened against his impending erection, the rag forsaken on his thigh now. The little blood he had left in his veins rushed south the moment your delicate fingers wrapped around the girth of his now-throbbing cock.

You just held him there with a tight grip, eyes never leaving his in defiance. Something sinister flicked in the green of your eyes — something mischievous, lustful even, but something really dark too. Your lips were slightly parted with an intransigent smile.

“How’re you feeling? Any pain?” You dared to ask, as if you weren’t the source of his pain.

Because the only real pain he felt was all gathered on his thudding dick. Feeling his agony, you stroked him once, twice… until you were pumping him decisively, shamelessly. Your thumb caressed his glans, buttering it with his own precum.

A moan tore through Marcus’ chest, rumbling — eyes closed, letting himself rejoice in the moment. Your fingers tight around his thick shaft, putting the right amount of pressure, sent him into oblivion. His erection just became harder and harder, steely as his gladius, under your diligent care.

Marcus felt the tension building up, his balls contracting with equal parts of pain and pleasure. His erection beat rhythmically with his heart — your strokes a blessing in disguise, sent to him to release the pressure building up at the bottom of his spine. You were working him so well, so dextrously, so deliciously, he didn’t know how much longer would he last.

“I wonder if it is as tasty as it looks…” you whispered in his ear as you crouched down a little, your lips grazing his skin.

The mere image of your mouth sealed around his manhood wrecked him. So fucking much, he was close to coming just with one single fucking handjob.

And then the door swung open, making both of you jump on the spot. You quickly removed your hand from his lap and Marcus almost died at the realisation that he would not find relief tonight.

As you turned around on your seat to face the door, you threw a blanket over his lap to disguise what had really been happening.

“Naimh is back,” you exclaimed giddily to him, standing up to greet her in your language.

Fuck Naimh. Kick her out, come back.

@orcasoul @immyowndefender @sjc7542 @fairiebabey

@thepalaceofmelanie @harriedandharassed @whoaitspascal87 @mewantpeepaw

@verybigvag @jessthebaker @ivoryandflame @missadangel @pepperstories

[transhitman]

I’ve seen a lot of Mouthwashing lets players get confused when Curly laughs when Jimmy finds the gun. I wanna try my take, lemme know if I’m delusional or not.

There’s a short story by Juan Rolfe called “No Dogs Bark” about a father carrying his son’s corpse back to their village so he can receive a proper burial. The father talks to his son’s body as if the young man is still alive. Through context clues, the reader learns that because of the father’s emotional neglect, his son ran off to become a highwayman and that’s ultimately what got him killed. There’s a line in book where the Father seems to come to terms with his son’s death, his failure as a parent, and that the last futile gift he can give his son is to endure the suffering with carrying a decomposing body back to town without stopping to rest so the boy can be buried as soon as possible:

“I cannot think of a sentinel’s burden so Hellish and so fit for a man like me.”

The choice of the word “sentinel” always stayed with me. The duty of a protector, a duty that this Father clearly failed when his son was alive and can only fulfill with futility in death.

When the player finally sees Anya’s body and where’s she positioned in Curly’s line of sight/proximity; I think Curly would say those same words.

Rolfe goes into detail about how the Father’s human senses reflexively react to the smell and sight of decomposition: eyes watering, visceral nausea, and lightheadedness, but the Father does nothing about it and says that sentence with “anguished joy”. Curly has no eyelids to blink away his watering eyes, can’t pinch his nose from the smell, or tend to his nausea. Literally every protective measure his body would employ to withstand being in the vicinity of decaying flesh is removed from him.

The fandom can debate whether Curly karmadically deserved to be in a position where he cannot look away from Anya’s corpse/put into the pod, but I think, HE THINKS he deserves it. Once Jimmy has that gun -practically a monument of Curly’s failure to protect Anya- is when he finally accepts her death. This flawed-but-good man and captain who has failed to protect his crew, accepts this final sentinel’s duty of being the last survivor of the Tupalr dissent into chaos. And He accepts this duty with complete anguished joy.

Okaaay this is so interesting. I at first took Curly laughing as like. Kind of breaking as he realizes the gun was literally right here the whole time. It should have been obvious where Anya hid it. Literally right next to him all these months. God, the irony. But I really like the interpretation that it's the point where he realizes he's going to either die or be the last one alive, and that he has finally reached his personal hell. Cause like. Anya and Daisuke are dead. Jimmy has the gun now and either he'll kill Swansea and then himself (because let's be honest, Jimmy would not chose to live with himself after this and I think Curly knows it), or Swansea will overpower Jimmy and then put Curly out of his misery like he did Daisuke. And Swansea sure as hell isn't taking the pod for himself after everything. And Curly knows there's no other outcome. Everyone is going to die because of what he did and he deserves to bear witness. Cowboy Bebop endscreen You're Gonna Carry That Weight. Fuck that's such a good interpretation...

[soraviie]

he begs to be taken back.txt

━ type: bts x gn! reader  ━ navigation

━ about: angst, hurt/ some comfort ? a little bit of crack?? In this economy?

━  pictures taken from Pinterest

━ w/c: 9.1k, rip.

━ previously posted on soraviii

NAMJOON: When hearing his pleading voice for the thousandth time, in the span of this one day only mind you, you slammed the phone on the desk with an irritated huff. The knowledge that people were still even capable of leaving voicemails had cost you dearly. For good measure, hurling the accursed device into the corner, you tightened the shawl around your neck, managed to grab onto the umbrella and lumbered out. Anywhere, to any direction and earth's current, if only you didn't have to think about him.

Recalling Namjoon, the grip on your handle tightened, making it produce a tortured groan.

"Shut up!" you barked at it. Rain pelted harshly on the world below, making it both difficult to see and walk. Rather detrimental to the whole thing to be outside. It took approximately 0.5s and 2 steps for your thoughts to begin curling around Namjoon. Who does he think he is? Does he think he's so unforgettable? Does he think he's some sort of God graced upon the world that you should take him back even after you tried so hard to erase him?! After you put all that hard work to return him back to the sea of strangeness and unfamiliarity?!

"Baby, baby, please, I beg of you, I am begging, just hear me out. Five minutes! Please, just five minutes!"

That was his last voicemail and chiefly the rest of them as well.

It was just five minutes... What were five minutes exactly? A little bit more than your favourite song. A scene in a movie. Passing. Fleeting. Just a slip in time...

No! No, no, no! Five minutes meant meeting his eyes, five minutes meant thousands of good memories, and five minutes meant remembering laying in his arms, reading a book together in quiet content. But Namjoon was gone. All of it was gone. It was down the drain just like this rain pooling around the sewer grates. Useless to remember, useless to yearn for. Just. Gone.

Shaking off the water onto the carpet inside the coffee shop, you were greeted by the pleasant ding of the gold-coated bell over your head and warmly smiling, you greeted the barista.

"One large coffee and a slice of marzipan cake for ____________. To go, please."

The scrape of the chair disturbed the previous mellow of the corner coffee shop with such vibrancy, not a soul was left unstirred. A tall figure, standing in the middle of the floor, gaping like a deer in headlights with mouth flopping open and closed like a fish.

You prayed he didn't see you.

But it was hard to believe given that Namjoon was staring right at you.

Without a moment's hesitation, you turned on the heel and ran into the rain, not even bothering to open up the umbrella again. The rain was cold and unforgiving, making you shudder in practically no time. Yes, it was the cold that made you tremble so.

"Baby! Baby! Please, wait!"

You could hear his voice travelling fast from behind, gaining much-unwanted attention. Namjoon's unfair genetic advantage that had granted him those very same legs you once drooled over, caught up with you in no time and soon enough you were forced to look at his grief-stricken visage. Seeing him up close, without the hindrance of anger and resentment, made your breath catch in your throat. It could hardly be believed you were ever together, given how beautiful he was. Despite his hair stuck to his forehead, bags so blue you'd think he was punched and, quite honestly, the smell he emitted, Namjoon was stunning.

Gorgeous Namjoon. Gorgeous...lying, arrogant, conceited douchebag of a scum!

"Baby," he leaned down to your face. "Baby, please, just listen!"

"I'm not your fucking baby," you screamed. "I told you we are done!"

Pushing past him, you tried to haul yourself away, only to be caught by an elbow.

"Unhand me, sir!"

A glitch of a faint smile appeared on his lips, only deepening your glare. Keeping arms firmly to himself, he began:

"I can't say how sorry I am."

"Then don't!"

"I can't live without you."

"Are you dying?" you scoffed, tossing him a pointed glower. "Right at this moment are you dying?"

Shit...he might just be. Those were definitely two different shoes on his feet.

"Might as well," he cried back. "Please, I'm going crazy! I need you back," you opened your mouth but Namjoon rushed faster. "And I understand I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. I understand all of that! But all the same, I'm begging. I'll do anything! Anything! I promise!"

"And how many things you promised before you broke them all?" you asked him trying to sound stern, uncaring but the eternal treachery of your voice betrayed you. You sounded hurt. Just as hurt as he appeared to be. "I will spend time with you, _____________. I would never blow you off like that, _____________. I will never make you feel jealous, ___________!"

You felt your bottom lip wobble whilst he stood like that in front of you - absolutely drenched, gaze lowered miserably at the ground.

"I know," he croaked. "I know I didn't treat you as well as I should have and I'm sorry. I was stupid. I thought...I took you for granted and didn't think that you could leave."

It took a whole half a minute for his words to settle and be recognized for all their meaning but once they did, you turned red from fury.

"You fucking arrogant asshole! Kim Namjoon, you're...You're!" failing to think of anything, you yelped out of frustration. Now people were definitely looking. Who did he think he was?! The man you loved?! The tall and gorgeous lover of your dreams who had dimples and spoke softly to animals and would rather go bike riding than flex the money he had with some dumb overpriced car?! Did he really think that being sorry could tempt you back to him?!

Doesn't it, a faint yet lingering voice whispered to the forefront of your mind.

"Please, if you don't want to listen, then don't," at last he quietly muttered. Chills racked your body upon hearing the quiver in his voice. He was actually crying. The strongest man you knew. Was crying. Over you, no less.

"Just please, read this," from the pocket of his jacket, he thrust a handful of papers at you. "And uhm don't toss it out and uhh just...remember I do love you."

With the long jacket flapping in the wind, he ran off, palm pressed to his mouth.

It was hard to see him like this. Especially considering you always assumed it'd be you who was the only broken one once the relationship had fizzled. Returning back home, now thoughtful and dragging your feet, you poured over the rain-distorted pages. Letters? Pages of a diary? Poems? It was hard to describe what you were reading but nonetheless, it was a strenuous read.

Namjoon had kept a chaotic but remarkably consistent journal that started with the first day you met. You never knew he had to work up the courage to speak to you for whole two weeks. You had merely assumed that the sly handsome idol had no business being shy. Reading about yourself made you blush and paradoxically understand Namjoon better than ever. He did love you. He still does if today's entry was anything to go by. This love overwhelms him

"Like an ocean in the hold of a single cup," he wrote. That night he'd been watching you sleep and had a panic attack, breaking down in the bathroom thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

"Why didn't you just wake me and talk?" you whispered at the pages, feeling the familiar sting of tears. You'd been tired from work, he wrote on the next page, he dared not to trouble you, dared not to ask too much, having in his mind done so already.

Having read that you snapped the book shut and after unlocking the phone wrote one concise message.

"Kim Namjoon, you're an idiot and I love you all too much."

YOONGI: Chapter Three. Paradise Lost. The words and the blinking cursor stared at you with open mockery. Ten whole minutes you sat here and couldn't think of a single word. How could you when you felt the weight of his gaze - lingering, smothering, flattering. Like you were the centre of his whole universe...

Violently you shook your head. Flattering. You were the centre of his whole universe. Lies. Meagre pillows of comfort, you shielded yourself with. You were not his anything, he had made it abundantly clear. Whatever this was...well, it was misguided all the same. You even managed to work up some anger. This was your place, your quiet solitude in the night, a beacon in whose light you could bask when the familiarity of your burrowed apartment was too much to bear. In this small night coffee shop, you could drown. You could forget all about him and yet here he was intruding upon the very sanctity he himself created the need for.

Reddening, you slammed your laptop shut, briefly meeting his gaze. Without shame or inhibition, he stared at you, long fingers twiddling with the cooling cup of black coffee. You knew he knew you knew and so on. Just two idiots both staring at each other without saying a word. With your head spinning from the implications, you stomped your way to the door, chin raised high. Whatever he wanted it was too late now. You hated him. Just like you said.

"I hate you, Min Yoongi!" you yelped, whipping around to tear your hand away from his, tears running down your face. Batting them harshly away, you let the poison out. It was strangely cathartic. As violent as it was there was some peace to be had in the raw honesty, finally fleeing into the aether.

Yoongi recoiled as though burnt, shock painting his features into something you'd not seen before.

"You don't mean that," he breathed weakly. "Please, don't say that."

"You're the worst thing that has ever happened to me! We're done! It's over!"

And alright maybe you didn't hate him. Maybe you still thought, weeks after you parted, did he eat anything at all today, was he tired, but in the face of your own wounded pride, it felt critical to be cruel. Repay his own, even if he hadn't meant it and maybe hadn't even seen it.

He was squirming in his red, upholstered seat; the closer you got, the more anxious he became, like a hamster realizing it was caught in a cage, he visibly flitted between various scenarios. You tried your best to not pay him any mind and continue your escape, out into the cold night. Alone, yes but with your ego preserved.

If that made anything better...

At last, just before you were past his booth, a warm yet roughened palm reached to encircle your wrist. Cautiously, as if he was frightened his own touch hurt.

"Please, don't leave..." fell broken out of his lips. Muffled behind the mask but still loud enough for you to hear. Grinding your teeth, you tried to recall every single night of disappointment. Every night that you cried yourself to sleep because he lied. He had lied when he said he'd be there for you.

"I don't want to hear it," you snapped but it sounded too uncertain; written on a prompt message that had flashed too fast for you to properly read.

"Please, just sit down. Let's talk... even if it's for the last time."

"Funny, you never wanted to talk before."

Yoongi cringed, his gaze darting to sit guilty on the dirtied table. Ah, there it was - the poison. It felt bad to be cruel; before at least it was the steady hand of rage that guided you towards being this person that you truly hated to be, but now...now, it just felt hollow.

Sitting down opposite him, you watched silently as he removed the mask. Kindly put, Yoongi looked like death warmed over.

"You look like shit," you reckoned and he gave a brittle, weary laugh, running a hand through the squished, clearly unwashed hair.

"Yeah, well, a living hell does that to a person."

"Don't exag-"

"I'm not," sternly, he shook his head, briefly closing his eyes as though carding through rows and rows of pain-filled memories. "I've barely slept, barely eaten anything since you left. I...I keep replaying those words in my head," he grasped at the roots of his hair, panting dejectedly at his lap. "I wanted to hate you. No one has ever broken my heart like this."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over chest. If you do this, it'll mean you won't shatter like fine glass.

"Then go on!" you urged. "Hate me! Loathe me! Curse my name and spit on any reminder of my existence!"

"I can't!" he cried out. "No matter how hard I try, I want you more than ever. I want to drag you away from your writing, I want to complain about the half-empty cups you leave across the house, I want to make you that stupid mac-and-cheese you love so much!"

Your breath stuttered.

"Yoongi -"

"I want you to be angry with me, I want you to nag me, I want to be annoyed," eyes shining with unshed tears, he continued to drop the words so fat you could barely make them apart anymore. "Want to wear your scrunchies around my wrist, want to make furniture for you, want to clean the shower because you hate doing it."

Then, he bowed his head, leaving you for the first time ever, utterly and properly speechless.

"Please, take me back. Let me come home to you."

"Music was your home," you argued but with his head still low, Yoongi disagreed.

"It's not anymore. It's just a house now. Just a roof over the head. I'm...I'm not the same as I was before and yes, it scared me, yes, I was a coward, yes, I ran away from you and you have the right to be angry!"

More than the guilt in them, you hated Yoongi's eyes. It was the first thing you notice about him when he was just a masked stranger asking to split the table in a busy cafe. Sitting across each other just like this, you remember being entranced by the way his feline eyes darted all over the place, subtly observing each life going in their own ways. You hated how much you had stared at him that day, so much so, the only thing written down was cat, cat, cat, cat, to appear as though you were working. You hated to remember how happy those eyes were when you finally mustered up the courage to show him your work and how they had squinted in noiseless laughter when he realized that the black cat guarding your main hero was just him reimagined as a feline.

There was so much to be hated about Min Yoongi...so why you couldn't do it?

"Let me crawl back home to you."

"What of your precious pride?" you tried to hiss but it came out like a genuine question.

"It's meaningless," he murmured. "What pride is there to sit staring at the wall, whole days and nights passing by. So, please, take me back. I'll do everything you ask just please, let me be your home again."

"My home?" you echoed, faintly.

"You'll always be mine even if you're gone."

JIN: The greeting got stuck in your throat like a bite of a dry chicken. Grazing just down the windpipe, making it impossible to speak. The sight of him standing there, over the sink of your childhood home, washing dishes of all things and shifting anxiously from one foot to another, was enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Hello! Oh, ___________!" your mother chastised. "Why didn't you tell me you had such a lovely fiance?"

Your gaze fixated numbly on Jin. On his stupid face, on his stupid curls on that stupid jumper you gifted him on the first birthday you'd been there to celebrate.

Jin had been many firsts and most of all the first man you failed to get rid of the second things were off. He was like a rash on the butt, definitely nothing more complimentary - an annoying thing making it impossible to live, to have a peaceful breather. He was always there, reminding you that he did exist, making you miserable.

"Fiance?" dumbly, you echoed, too taken aback to even be angry. Being with Jin was another life, one you left behind at that; to see him here was as jarring as having a tree fall on top of your head.

"Yes, he arrived here late at night, yesterday," your mother continued to chatter on, oblivious to the lingering tension. "Introduced him all proper, asked for my blessing, helped me to lug in the Christmas tree this morning. Didn't you, Seokjinnie?"

If the red ears were anything to go by, then your mother had put him through Machiavellian levels of mortification for many consecutive hours now. So why was he here?

Meeting his gaze you wanted to ask just that.

Why are you here? What was this charade all about?

"I see," you, stated flatly. "I'll put my things away."

Quickly, you brushed past him to your bedroom, hearing a vague -

"Seokjin, dry your hands! Don't run off all dripping wet."

"Sorry, ma'am."

- coming from behind. Slamming the doors, you were unsurprised to find Jin's things already waiting for you there, having invaded this corner of your life that he had no business being in. He wasn't anything to you anymore. Just a stranger returned back to the tides of faceless crowds from which he emerged in a moment of delirious, star-stricken fancy. That's all that ever was to it. That's all you ever were to him, just a fleeting fancy he got caught up in too eagerly. The familiar ball and chain that everyone complained about were not as sturdy as they made it seem, engagements could be called off, relationships torn apart and hearts broken with the same ease it took to dust off a jacket.

"________________! Come decorate the tree!"

Languidly, you put one bauble around the piercing branches, ignoring the swelter of his lingering glance. At last, when he'd been drilling in the back of our head for so long you could swear it physically gave you a fever, you hissed surreptitiously at him, pretending to smile so your mother wouldn't have to know of how her precious Seokjinnie was by far the last person on the planet you wanted to speak with.

"How dare you come here," you accused him and he withered, hearing the sheer vitriol in your voice. "How dare you tell her you're my fiance? When we're done?!"

Jin frowned at the tree, haphazardly shoving the silver-coated balls on the needles.

"Please, we can't be done," he replied. "Let's just talk it out, okay?"

"I don't want to talk it out! If me leaving Seoul was not abundantly clear."

"You still kept the ring."

"Oh my god, is that what it's all about? The ring?" you yanked at the chain around your neck. Perhaps you shouldn't have kept it at all but it was an antique family heirloom and by the time you realized it was still around your neck, having grown so used to it, the jewellery felt like a natural part of your body, and the plane had already landed. "Here, you can have it!"

"Don't you dare," he growled, squeezing your palm to be still before falling quiet as your mother entered the living room. Jin was still wearing his own ring, it glistened around his finger in the sparkling Christmas lights.

Your mother's eyes darted between the two of you, clearly confused over the fraught expressions you both wore.

"Seokjin, do you mind helping me with the bean sprouts?"

Hell-bent on playing the role of the perfect upcoming son-in-law, Jin could only nod with a tight smile, unwillingly letting his hand drop.

"Be right there," nasally, he promised and dragged his feet towards the kitchen. As your hands trembled, one of the baubles fell onto the floor. In what seemed like slow motion, you watched it fly through the air, determinately swinging towards its own destruction and then shatter, shards flinging all over the hardwood floor.

"_____________, don't," Jin cried out but you didn't listen, squatting down to pick it up. Just as expected the tremors in your hands though small were enough for the sharpened edge to ungainly scrape against the skin, slicing it open.

Suddenly, it all felt too much and with tears threatening to burst, you ran outside the door, into the sobering winter where nothing was happy enough to pour any more bitterness into your heart. Unlike the ever-present bustle, your home was quiet. It lay on the edge of an unfarmed field with nary neighbours around. It was frighteningly quiet but soothing in a fevered moment such as this. Coming to a stop by an old shed, one you used to sneak cigarettes with a couple of friends in a reckless youth, you leaned against it and panted into the bristling cold. Clumps of snow fell lazily from the sky. Without hurry, completely careless. You yearned for that kind of serenity.

Hearing the crunch of the snow, you glimpsed around the corner, watching as Jin fell face-first into the thick snow, cursing as he did so. You almost laughed at the sight, only to remember that you promised to never, ever see him again.

He found you with relative ease, there was nothing else in the snowed-in field anyhow and he peered down at you with storming judgement.

"What are you doing running out in this weather?" he scolded, throwing a jacket over your shoulders.

"You have no right to reprimand me," you grumbled but he didn't listen and instead reached to examine the small cut on your finger, fishing a band-aid from the pocket of his jeans. Quietly you watched his brows furrow in concentration, treating this scrape as vitally as one would a heart surgery. Circling the band-aid around your finger, he breathed a soft:

"There we go," and pressed your palm against his cold lips.

"Jin -"

"I want you to take me back," he stated honestly, leaving another kiss, this time higher up the arm. "Yell at me if you need to, curse me out in front of your mother if you want to but please take me back."

"Your family -"

"I explained either me and you or no one at all," he murmured, slowly inching upwards and on instinct, your eyes closed, when tepidly he kissed your neck. "I was wrong for not saying so in the first place but now it's clear. If they love me, they'll accept you."

"And if they don't?"

"I'll move here if I must," he grunted, lightly breezing past your chin. Your fingers dug into that stupid green sweater. In the monochrome grey of a desolate winter, it stood out like a blood-curdling scream.

Graceless, he walked with you backwards, pinning you to the broken shed. You felt its wet cold seep through the clothing.

You should really slap this bastard and yet when he kissed you, you moaned, eyes popping wide open. The Jin you knew would never do this - he wouldn't press you up against a wall, so needy, so assured, he wouldn't fly out into the middle of nowhere and charm your mother.

"Have you gone insane?" you whispered, pushing him away and yet he refused to budge more than two centimetres. When he exhaled, you could feel the warmth on your face.

"Quite possibly," Jin nodded, chasing your lips, the glimpse in his eye almost look crazed, desperate - without a doubt. "Please, I'll do anything for you. Take me back and I'll build a home for you. Be it Seoul, here, or anywhere you like."

"You wouldn't be happy outside of home."

"You are my home," he twirled the ring between his fingers, enveloping you in his embrace as you shuddered from the cold. "And won't let anyone ruin that."

HOSEOK: He darted from the seat, the second you were escorted into the private room. Gentle music and easy conversation swayed in the background, illuminated by the soft romantic lights of numerous candles adorning the white-clothed tables which you imagined looked much like the one Hoseok had sat by just a second ago. Tugging at your clothes, you couldn't help but flush from embarrassment. You were so clearly from a different tax bracket but carding through the closet, the best clothes you found were his. His presents to be exact, however, after everything that happened, it felt wrong. Showcasing his numerous gifts on you would just give the wrong kind of signal - that you were still his and that...You weren't anymore. That should be the end of that. Even if he clearly had something to say against it.

"___________," he gasped, appearing shocked. "Thank you for coming."

You waited for the server to leave, and only then you spoke. Calm, collected, without any emotion. You'd been practising the entire week now. But standing in front of a mirror and gazing at it with soul-sapped eyes was not the same as standing in front of the love of your life and keep insisting that it was all over.

"You hardly gave me a choice," you shrugged. "You hounded my co-workers, friends, landlord, my parents, Hoseok. My parents."

He cringed, biting on his lip.

"I know," Hoseok drawled guiltily. "But I was...I was desperate. You were just gone and I was going crazy."

With a sigh, silence settled between you.

"I believe fifteen minutes is what you asked for," you sat down, firmly rejecting his feeble attempts to pull out your chair. "So fifteen minutes is what you're going to get."

"Thank you," he bowed, quickly rushing to sit in front of you. "You're too gracious."

"That I am," you murmured, taking a long sip from the wine glass. Some couldn't hurt. Maybe even a lot. After all, he'd hurt you enough, no amount of alcohol could deal that kind of damage. Whether or not he'd heard you, you couldn't tell, either way, he ignored the remark.

Exhaling, a nerve-riddled breath, he fixed the lapels of his suit jacket and after fixating you with a firm gaze, said:

"I beg of you to take me back."

The wine splattered all over the white tablecloth. Feeling it drip unhandsomely down your chin, you reached for a napkin but Hoseok was quicker. He wiped the wine away, letting his fingers graze past your lips. Your heart hammered and h you wished that it would be from indignance.

"You can't be serious!"

"I am."

From the look in his eye, he really was not lying. That sort of cutthroat determination you'd seen on him only once - when he was dancing and trying to beat someone or something. The difference between the smiling, jovial man who asked you out on a date and that one was so startling it took you whole two business days to get over.

Hoseok was like a box of chocolates with the labels all crossed out. You could reach for one candy, expecting a sour tangy filling, of rum, perhaps, or a lemon zest and be met in the end by the sweetness of dripping caramel. It was fun for a while, it kept you on your toes and then...then it was less fun when you realized you never really knew the man you were with. When you couldn't reach for him on the saddest of days and expect assuredness of a well-rehearsed answer. He was always different and what you got, in the end, was no more than just a repainted mask he wielded against everyone else. Chocolates were good and fun but they couldn't substitute meals and expensive presents couldn't buy true love.

"________________, please, take m-"

"Hors d' oeuvres are served," the waiter, literally having spawned out of thin air, stated. Hoseok pulled away, jaw clenching in annoyance. "Tzaziki Shrimp Cucumber Rounds. Enjoy!"

"Thank you," you bid the waiter thinly. When the doors closed behind him, another pause of stilted silence lingered in the air.

"I know I'm asking much," Hoseok began but with a furious shake of the head, you interrupted.

"You're asking the impossible, Hoseok! What even? How did you? I mean, what?" stumbling, upon the words, you suppressed the deceitful sting in the corners of your eyes. "You're just saying these things because you know I'm weak."

"You're not weak!" he argued with a furrowed brow. "Don't you ever say such a thing about yourself!"

"Then why are you asking - "

"Because I love you!"

Your head quirked to gaze at him. Defeated, Hoseok sighed.

"I love you. Madly, utterly, completely. I was shit at showing it and I know you have every right to be mad at me. These past few weeks..." he trembled, glimpsing to the side. "Have been an honest hell. I hate myself for making you feel -"

"Cheap?" you finished, voice quivering. "Like I could be bought?"

"Yes," he swallowed in regret. "I can never fully undo the damage or express how sorry I am enough. But I do love you. I've never loved anyone like I do you," capturing your fingers in his, he continued. "I promise I will learn, I'll listen, I'll do anything you ask of me but, please, let me love you, let me cherish you, let us grow old together. There's a future for us, I know I crave it but so must -"

"You guys enjoying your food?"

This time a scream physically tore from your chest as unexpectedly a third figure simply manifested without any warning beforehand. Hoseok's grasp on your palm tightened and so did his jaw.

"What's your name?" he inquired the waiter, not letting his gaze stray away from your face. Not even a little bit.

"Jae!"

"Jae, do yourself a favour and get lost."

"Okay!" With a hollow smile, Jae scurried through the doors. The third and final bout of silence began.

"I can't be here anymore," you spluttered, detaching your hand from his. It wasn't surgically tied together, so why, why did it hurt so much?

"______________," Hoseok whimpered. In his mouth, your name sounded like a benediction. You couldn't stand to hear so much...love in his voice. Telling yourself he'd never loved you was the only dam that prevented you from crying one lonely night after the next. With the restaurant turning into a blur of cream colours, you rushed out into the street, maniacally looking for any escape. A bus stopped near and you ran towards it, uncaring about where it took you as long as it was far, far away.

You caught a glimpse of Hoseok chasing after you, despairingly trying to find you in the pandemonium that was a Friday evening in a well-known district. Over and over again, he traced every car and window but as you had ducked out of the sight, he couldn't do so, no matter the effort. When the bus rolled away, you saw his shoulders drop, and after pressing a palm over his mouth, he simply sobbed right there in the middle of the otherwise joyful crowd.

JIMIN: Anyone has had those times in their life, right? When you'd done something crazy, something you could only gape at from this point of view, wondering what the hell were you thinking. It didn't even feel like a part of your life at most times, merely a scandalous story you'd imagined, not lived through. You were happy to say that after three months, it had finally come to the point where you could delude yourself into thinking it had not been real. It did not feel real anyhow. Returning back to normalcy had sapped any credibility of the various memories bubbling right underneath your skin. On good days, you thought of Jimin only once, in passing, and then you lived your life. On bad days, however...on bad days you'd be plagued by his visage on every billboard and poster in the city, every radio would have his voice singing, and every innocuous google search would somehow end up in compilations of his laughter. You feared to remember and feared to forget it. But no matter how bad the days were before, it was nothing compared to the clammy dread pulsating with every one of your heartbeats.

"How do you even know who I am?" you licked at your dry lips, questioning if this too was even real. The time on the clock showed 3:26 am and on the phone, with you, there was Kim Namjoon.

"Jimin stares at your pictures all the time. He also mutters your name. In his sleep."

That... that can not be true.

"I...I don't -"

"Listen, __________, frankly, I don't quite know who exactly you are to Jimin or what even happened, I just know that he is spiralling. He's drinking every moment he gets, he doesn't eat, and he sleeps only when he can't stand upright anymore. The only time he's calm is when he's staring at your picture."

You lean into your duvet, feeling much like crying yourself.

"I realize you are not obligated to help him," Namjoon continues, much softer. "But please, I am scared for him and if he meant anything to you, just please, talk to him at least one last time."

This is not real. This is not real, keeps running through your mind as you board the plane, as it takes hours to go back to the one place you thought you'd be done with forever and climb onto the once familiar elevator. Your life is once again a dream. Or a nightmare. Yeah, that felt like it.

When you climbed out onto Jimin's floor, you were horrifically met by Namjoon and Taehyung, both of whom stared at you as though you were a mythical creature, ripped out of the pages of a long-lost fantasy book.

"He's in there," curtly, Namjoon tossed a head towards the doors, dragging gaping Taehyung with him. "We'll give you some room."

You nodded in compliance, pushing open the doors with a bated breath. Dusk had settled deep over the rooms and the air was stuffed full with the stench of alcohol. You wandered quietly through the apartment until at last you stumbled upon a crumpled figure wrapped haphazardly underneath a pile of blankets.

"Jimin?" you called out cautiously and the pile wobbled until a messy head poked through. His eyes were swollen, clearly having been crying for most if not the whole day, and dry spit clung to the corner of his mouth. He squinted at you standing in the middle of his bedroom.

"Go away," he grumbled and turned away.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

At the sound of your booming voice, he jolted, gripping the sides of his head.

"How dare you behave this way? How dare you degrade yourself to this level?!"

Blinking blearily, Jimin whimpered:

"___________________? Is it really you?"

"Who else could it possibly be?" you scoffed and he hiccuped, shamefully looking at the floor.

"Dunno...when I drink enough, I see you around."

You cringed, hearing this. No wonder, Namjoon said he was scared.

"And do I yell at you also?"

"No, you just say you hate me."

"I don't hate you," you sighed and Jimin's head whipped up so fast, you swore there was a crack.

"Then take me back," he fought with the sheets, to crawl out of the bed, one leg stuck in his trousers. "Take me back, please!"

"Have you no shame? No dignity left?" you wondered aloud, seeing him on his knees, still drunk most likely.

"I don't need dignity," he cried out. "I don't need pride. I just need you back. I need you," he swayed back and forth, growing hysteric. "You're the love of my life!"

"Don't say that when you're drunk," you snapped, willing yourself to treat him fairly. You'd coddled him before and it was at the expense of your own heart. Not this time. Not even when you wanted so bad it hurt. "They're just lies."

"They're not lies!"

"Well, I still don't believe you! Do you really think by ruining yourself you're making me love you more?! Do you really think that being pitiful is enough to earn my forgiveness?"

He choked back a sob, batting at his wet cheeks.

"I know you hate me..."

"I don't hate you! Why do you always think in extremes?! I'm disappointed! I'm angry! Get your fucking shit together, for God's sake, Jimin! I want you to respect me and respect yourself and not do whatever this is because this," harshly, you gestured over his crouched figure, trembling in the cold air of his messed up apartment. "This is not cute. It's terrifying!"

Perhaps you'd been too harsh but either way, Namjoon thanked you once a week passed and Jimin had returned to some form of normalcy.

Either way, it all began to feel like a dream again once you left, gazing at Seoul through the airplane window, how it shrank smaller and smaller until it disappeared entirely. Along with Park Jimin somewhere in it. Dragging your feet into the unmade bed, like the week abroad simply didn't exist, you sighed and numbly looked around. The unnamed feeling that had plagued you for months finally had a name. This was a house, it didn't feel like a home. Home was Jimin's apartment, his stupid kitchen and stupid dishtowels, his stupid gallons of beauty products and his stupid Chelsea boots he'd bought too much of. But you left him in Seoul. It's not like he'll chase you and beg again. Who would even do that? You suspected no one would. Who could possibly love you that much to not only abandon all their principles once but twice?

At a quiet ring of a doorbell, you groaned. Another cat missing?

Dejectedly, you shuffled to the front door, throwing it open and then feeling a stiff weight settle on top of you, enveloping their arms around you like a greedy spider.

You blinked at the ceiling, smelling the all-too-familiar perfume and the gentle, airy voice that came with it.

"Please, take me back."

TAEHYUNG: "Please, take me back."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

The small crowd gasped when he dropped onto his knees, bowing in front of you.

"Have you lost your mind?!" you hissed, trying to drag him up. "Have you no pride left? No sense of shame?!"

It was maybe seconds, seconds until someone recognized him if they haven't done so already.

"No," he replied, muttering at the snow-covered ground. "I have no need for them if only you'll come back."

You didn't know why it was always winter when Taehyung was involved. You met in winter, you broke up in winter, he cried for you to come back in winter and you rejected him during that same winter. A year had passed and once more the ground was dusted with white snow, etching cold breaths into the air. There were no calls anymore, no more texts begging to just talk, to see you one last time. Even the one inquiry about whether or not you wanted your stuff was left on read.

Served him right, the logical part of your brain sneered. He'd hurt you, this was merely a taste of his own medicine. If only this self-righteousness would make you happy.

Walking past his billboards plastered towering and unattainable over the hustle of streets below, you couldn't help but linger, staring at his soft smile, promising the release of his album in a week's time. What a strange date. It was the same one you met it. It was fake, you could tell. His smile that is. When Taehyung smiled for real it inspired others to do the same, not walk past him, uncaring. You wondered where he was...a whole year had passed since he begged you on the knees...

"I'm right here," a deep voice spoke against the shell of your ear and you yelped, turning around. His hand shot out to steady you against the slippery pavement, keeping it around the padded material of your jacket for far longer than necessary. You decided not to remark upon it, selfishly absorbing this scrap. Where was your own dignity?

The little part of his face that you could see was wholly indecipherable, the only feature you could make out through the falling snow and his mask, were the dark of his eyes, staring fixedly at you.

"Hello," you breathed faintly.

"Hello."

You'd forgotten just how warm his voice was.

"Have you been doing well?" he asked, ignoring the mass of people trying to squeeze past you, grumbling in annoyance.

"...yes," you lied. "You?"

"No," he answered honestly, before adding softly. "I miss you."

"Taehyung -"

"I'm not going to lie, ____________," he shrugged. "I've been doing awful since you left. I still love you. What more is there to say?"

Your eyes flitted down at the familiar red around his neck.

"Is that my scarf?" you pointed out and he glanced down at it.

"Yes, it is," he drawled simply. "I found it among your old stuff. I've been wearing it ever since. It's lost your scent now," he sighed ruefully before sobering up. "Is that a creepy thing to say?"

"I -" you stammered. "I don't quite know."

He hummed.

"I saw you're about to release your album," you began, swaying awkwardly on the heels. You know you rejected him but...but couldn't you also want to see him? Let the faceless crowds of judgment ridicule you for your indecisiveness but you had shared a life together with Taehyung, seeing him, just like the first time you met, in the winter, made your heart ache with longing.

"I can send it over for you to listen," he casually suggested. "You might find it interesting."

"Oh," you dragged. "Don't you have strict protocols about that sort of thing?"

"I don't care," he stated. "It's my album, my heart, if I want to give it to you I will. Even if..." he trailed off, finally removing the hand that had been squeezing yours all this time. "Even if you don't want anything to do with it anymore."

When you saw him turn and leave, you floundered, but couldn't think of anything worthwhile to say. Nothing meaningful, nothing...honest. Brutal, bold honesty was always his forte, yours was to pretend.

"I haven't changed my address!" you called out after him. "I still live -"

"I know," Taehyung replied, glancing over his shoulder, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his brown coat. "I remember."

When the postman knocked on your door with the package marked as from KTH, it took all your courage to unwrap the blue ribbon, it may have taken it a bottle or two to even put the CD and listen. A card sat attached to the plastic case.

To my only angel, I loved you yesterday, love you today, and will love you tomorrow. Forever Yours, Kim Taehyung. It had dragged a deeply ugly sound from your throat - something between a wrecked sob and snorting laughter. As if you didn't know who he was.

The album itself was deeply melancholic, something one would expect of Taehyung but this was different. How you could not say, it just was. There was almost an anxious feeling about it. It seemed to weave through the various melodies like a thread across different-sized buttons. It wasn't until the last track which ended almost on a note of a piercing scream did you put together the pieces of the puzzle why it all seemed so familiar.

To my angel,

I always believed you were in the far, far sky

Turns out you're the face next to me

And in all that ever was or is meant to be,

I'd give anything to hear your dry, dry sigh

I know what you're going to say

It's been a year, you fool

But if only you gave me a chance you would see

A year, ten, twenty?

Means no difference to me,

My lonely angel.

Here it all was, the life you lived together, the life he lived after parting, all displayed in neatly aligned 12 tracks, meaning nothing to anyone and yet bearing everything to you. Each opaque reference lyricists would brush off as wordplay were snapshots of a mourned past. You had to...You had to find him. With a sudden urgency, you felt your body tremble, seized by this one, unshakeable impulse. You had to find him. To do what exactly? Who knows. But you couldn't sit here this night alone. Jumping on one foot, you got a boot over your foot and a scarf over your neck, yet when you yanked open the doors, there he already stood, hand raised, prepared to knock.

"Hello," you breathed faintly.

"Hello," he greeted and then to your shock, surprise and heartbreak, sunk to his knees, peering up at you, both solemn and terrified out of his mind. "Take me back?

JUNGKOOK: "That guy is staring at me."

"No, he's not. Shut up and eat your food."

Your date pouted unkindly.

"You're mean and bossy," he complained. "I'm not asking you out ever again."

"I'm practically bursting into tears," dryly, you retorted, taking a long drag of the shitty white whine he'd ordered. "Keep smiling, Jack, lest you want that guy to fashion you into a skin suit."

"My name is Jake."

"Hmmm whatever."

As you met gazes with the shadowy figure sitting and glaring pure hellfire from the corner of the restaurant, you wanted to cry. Laugh? Both? It was hard to say. But either way, Jungkook was a fucking dick who made your life a living hell. It was supposed to end with you victorious, slamming a door into his stupid nose, you were meant to walk away from this whole mess with your head held high, ego unbruised and heart absolutely detached. Or at least that's the promise you made until you saw the intense brown of his eyes, tracking your every move. He was absolutely full of his own shit.

By now you knew what he wanted, what was running through that fantastically mangled piece of meat he called a brain. He wanted to be taken back - into your bed, into your arms, into your home. Like a skinned mole, he'd burrowed his sneaky way into those forbidden places, with his stupid Elmo laugh, his golden heart and his...well, it all had made you a little bit stupid. It all had made your hand shove away all concerns and throw yourself head first into what must have been the most torrent love affair this side of the globe.

You knew every dirty part of his, the flaws he was so deathly afraid of showing, the embarrassment he'd rather first chew his own tongue off instead of revealing; in your hands, he'd bloomed like a beautiful flower and despite his mountain of problems, you still want him.

Wanted him, you amended in your mind, you wanted him, now you don't. Case closed. Pinatas for all.

But if you knew Jungkook down to every sinewy muscle and vein, so did he. He knew from the first meeting of your eyes that you didn't want to be here, you'd dragged yourself out here to be with Jacklyn, kicking and screaming, with the sole goal of fruitlessly showing yourself you could live on after every man had been ruined by this dopey kangaroo.

He knew that just beneath the tongue you were itching to get back with him, to go on those ridiculous dog playdates, to have him bouncing around the room, trying to dance all sexy only for his oversized clothes to remind you too keenly of a flag rather than a human. He knew you wanted to press your face into that chest, drag him down on top of you by his body chain, and be annoyed when he wouldn't fucking stop bumping into you.

But damned if you ever admit that out loud.

Too preoccupied with various musings of intimacy, you failed to see Jungkook grab an apple, draw his hand back like a bow and launch the apple at Jacob's head.

Falling on the floor, your brave date muttered "fuck this" and scrambled off.

All too smoothly, Jungkook took the now free seat.

"Hey, babe," he said, winking. "Missed me?"

"Fuck you!"

Storming off, you wrapped your coat tighter around yourself to protect yourself from the harsh wind but fuck all it did and fuck all your legs did against the fresno nightwalker known as Jungkook. It took five maybe six long strides for him to be right up in your face.

"Baby, let's just talk about this."

"Fuck you!"

"I'm so so sorry, I was wrong, you were right; always are. I bow my head in shame."

"Fuck you!"

His expression tightened, lips pursing in annoyance.

"Don't threaten me with a good time."

Another date. Another day. Another time your gaze trailed to Jungkook, waving at you from the bar.

"You're really beautiful," the new date choked out. "T-Though I can't help but feel you're not listening to me at all."

Your gaze darted to sit guiltily upon the tablecloth. Averys was a good guy, he'd been nice, just all right and yet...yet it was not enough. And you knew that. And Jungkook knew that. And it was all so very annoying.

"Listen, Alec, you're cute, I'm just in a...weird situationship."

"My name's Alex."

"Oh," your mouth popped open and against your will you found Jungkook's eyes, staring at you with this longing across the floor. "My bad."

"Does he make you laugh?"Jungkook's arm wrapped possessively around your waist, pushing you into his chest when you tried to escape him after Alex had left, leaving you alone against Jungkook in the middle of the street. "Does he make you cum?"

"You're vulgar!" you snapped.

"So, does he?"

"No, but at least," your lip wobbled and from the sheer shock of seeing your tears, Jungkook's grip loosened. "A-At least he doesn't make me cry."

Scuffing your shoes against the gravel ground, disinterestedly you swayed on the rusty swing, hearing it screech painfully with every movement. Somehow you could relate to that sound. There was no one for you but Jungkook but he was...he also was not an option. Not anymore. Like your relationship it'd been funny at first and then it stopped. It stopped being funny when the time came to be serious, to take responsibility and he just couldn't do that.

Wiping away your tears, you jolted when someone sat beside you. Jungkook, gazing mournfully at the ground, echoed the same pitiful swinging, having no more energy to put behind it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to make you cry. I never did."

"But you still did," you pointed out and he nodded sadly.

"I still did."

Sigh.

"Nothing I ever say will make it enough, right?" he clarified, reaching to gently hold your hand as you swing. "You won't believe it."

"Promises are just words," you sniffled. "Everyone says words. Most don't mean a thing with them."

"But actions speak louder than words, don't they?"

With your hand in his, it felt right but no matter how good it was, it didn't change the fact he disappeared. With a postcard in the mail, he disappeared, leaving nothing but "one day you and I will love again."

And five years passed. Five years - you're a new person, it's an all-new world, everything has changed but your heart fluttering, stumbling drunkenly in your chest remained all the same. When you opened the door Jungkook gasped, face partially hidden behind the flowers. He was changed as well, with hair much longer, tattoos covering his arm, and piercings littered across his face yet his eyes were the same and the way they stared at you brought you all those years back - when you've felt the most wanted in your entire life.

"_______________," he breathed like a prayer. "Can I come in?"

Mutely, you nodded, failing to grasp both your voice and reasons why this was a very, very bad idea. Twirling around, his eyes flitted between your private pieces, the bits of your heart displayed all around the temporary home. Every home had been temporary since him but such a thing should never be spoken aloud.

"What are you doing here?" tiredly, you asked and Jungkook reached to hand you a paper. Squinting at it you read, growing confused, messed up, teary and frightened all at the same time.

"Due to the client's personal wishes, ____________ ____________ is criminally and lawfully free of any non-disclosure agreement made between ___________ _________, the client and Hybe/Bighit Entertainment. ____________ _________ is hereby granted public and private freedom to discuss any and all information about the client. The client has been made aware of all pertaining possibilities of such an act and has consented to have this statement be signed and all of its subsequent consequences."

With the paper shuddering in your hands, you peered at him.

"Actions speak louder than words, right?" Jungkook chuckled nervously, scratching at the nape of his neck

"Why would you do such a thing?!" you yelped. " I could...I could destroy you!"

Yet he merely shrugged.

"Why not? I'm already ruined without you," his expression darkened, a frown marring the lovely features. "Five years had passed and not a day hasn't gone by without me thinking of you. You don't know how long I've stared at your pictures with Alex and wished that it was me," he sighed. "How many nights have I cried myself to sleep, praying I could just get five minutes with you."

"Don't say that."

"It's true."

After a moment of silence, you spoke faintly:

"We broke up. Alex and I."

"I know," Jungkook nodded thoughtfully. "I saw you get together and waited."

"What if we hadn't broken up?" you whispered, not noticing that he'd taken a step closer. Those damn eyes of his always entranced you. "What if we got married?"

"I'd still wait for you," he mumbled, glaring at his shoes. "I'd wait for you my whole life. When I left, I realized I needed to grow up. For you. So I did all I could and when you...when you were with him...well, I didn't want to make life hard for you. Didn't dare to make you cry again. I was good," his voice quivered. "I was really good for you, baby. All grown up now. So, please, if you can, take me back. I'll be good, I promise."

© soraviii/soraviie 2022-2023

[witchybitchycrybaby]

Fuck me yourself, you coward

Davos Blackwood x Aeron Bracken

Warnings: none I can think of

Summary: you know how one person says "fuck you" and the other responds with "fuck me yourself, you coward"? Yep, that's it.

Words: 1k

I feel so normal about them

✨✨✨

The sun was beginning to set over the meadow at the boundary of House Blackwood and House Bracken lands, its golden rays casting shadows over the trees.

Some time ago, Davos Blackwood and Aeron Bracken had agreed to a truce. They thought it a good idea, especially since they wanted to practice their swordsmanship together before they both were knighted. These moments of peace never lasted for long, however.

The boys stood facing each other, swords drawn, the practice long forgotten as it turned into one of their usual arguments.

"We're better hunters, Blackwood," Aeron snapped, his eyes blazing with fury. "If your traps are empty, it’s because you don’t know how to set them right."

"Better hunters, my ass," Davos retorted, gripping the hilt of his sword harder until his knuckles turned white. "I’ve seen your men stumble around the woods like blind fools. Probably can’t tell a deer from a tree."

They circled each other, their words as sharp as the blades they wielded. This wasn't the first time the sword practice had turned into a verbal sparring match, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Of this they were sure.

"At least we don't come here at night to move the boundary stones. You lot must really like our Blackwood land." Davos was fuming, his voice rising dangerously.

"Your Blackwood land?" Aeron repeated in disbelief. "The stones are exactly where they should be. Maybe on top of not knowing how to set traps, you don't know how to measure properly. How you manage to keep your land is a big mystery to me." Aaron rolled his eyes and Davos saw red.

"You arrogant piece of- fuck you, Bracken!" He yelled.

Aeron, not really thinking about what he was saying, blurted out, "Fuck me yourself, you coward!"

Both boys instantly froze, the deafening silence settling between them. They could only stare and blink at each other helplessly, wide-eyed and speechless. Aeron's face drained of color for a split second before a furious crimson blush crept up his neck, spreading like wildfire. He could feel the heat even on the tips of his ears. His anger quickly drained out of him, giving place to embarrassment.

Davos, on the other hand, looked like he had just gotten the biggest treat of his existence. His lips slowly stretched into a smirk, and a mischievous glint lit up his eyes. "What was that, Bracken?"

"I-I didn't mean it like that," Aeron stammered, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. He was almost sure that the other boy could hear it too. "It was just-"

He stopped abruptly when Davos started to step closer and closer. "Oh really? Because it sure as hell sounded like an invitation to me."

Aeron took a step back, and another, somewhere along the way he dropped his sword into the grass. His breath hitched in his throat as he put his hands in front of him in a miserable attempt to stop the other boy. "I was angry! I wasn't thinking!"

But Davos only continued to close the distance between them, acting as if he didn't hear Aeron's pleas.

"No need to explain. I'm happy to oblige."

Finally, Aeron's back hit the tree, and he was trapped, unable to put some distance between him and Davos. Something in the brunet's eyes told him, that even if he ran, he would be right behind him, not letting him off the hook.

"Stop it, Blackwood. This isn't funny."

But Davos reached out, placing his hand on the tree right beside Aeron's face, trapping him in a cage. He leaned in some more, so that their faces were mere inches apart, and said in low, teasing voice, "Who's laughing?"

Aeron's heart raced. He could feel the heat radiating from the other boy's body, and his warm breath fanning his face. Aaron squeezed the bark behind his back as hard as he could. If it weren't for the support of the tree, his knees would have given out long ago.

"D-Davos, I..."

"Yes, Aeron?" He whispered.

Aeron wanted to push Davos away. He wanted to grip his hands on his tunic and just shove him off. He would storm off, not even once glancing back at the Blackwood. But his body refused to leave; worse even, he found himself leaning in slightly, drawn to the dark-haired boy. There was this pull that no matter how much he tried, he couldn't explain.

The smirk on Davos' face turned into a satisfied smile. "That's what I thought," he said and, without a second to lose, he captured Aeron's soft lips with his own.

Aeron's eyes widened in pure shock. Instead of pulling away, he found himself responding to the kiss. He moved his lips tentatively against Davos', and the boy hummed in contentment.

The kiss was a collision of teeth more than a loving embrace. It was raw and unrefined, their tongues tangling in a wild dance. They both were sure that it would leave them bruised and wanting even more of the fiery burn.

When Davos finally pulled back, his lips red, Aeron was breathless and blushing even more furiously than earlier. "That... That wasn't what I meant," he whispered weakly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Sure thing," Davos said with a wink. "Whatever you need to tell yourself, Bracken."

His hand moved to gently cup Aeron's cheek, his skin almost burning him. Aeron shuddered under his touch, accepting the fact that there was a part of him that wanted this and so much more. That despite the animosity between their families, he had been yearning for this one Blackwood.

"You know," started Davos, his eyes following his fingers caressing Aeron's cheek. "I have a feeling that this is just the beginning."

And Aeron could feel it too. His Blackwood would make sure of it.

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch18

Description: lots of action here guys. Hope it’s ok - I haven’t checked for any mistakes because your gal needs to sleep 😆🤦🏼‍♀️ Graves is a wanker!

Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

I wake up to the sun peeking into the room. I flutter my eyes, trying to blink away sleep. Johnny is wrapped around me, both arms clinging to my waist along with one of his legs thrown over me for good measure. I couldn't move even if I wanted to. I try to lift his arm but, if anything, he just grabs me tighter while growling. I whine slightly, starting to feel a little claustrophobic..

The Lieutenant is nowhere to be seen. I assume that he left during the night. It makes me wonder if our conversation last night was real..

I try to unlatch Johnny from me for another couple of minutes, not wanting to wake him prematurely but also not wanting to feel trapped for too much longer.

The door clicks open and the Lieutenant marches in. He grunts at the scene in front of him and then barks in our direction "JOHNNY! Let the girl go - time to get up!" Johnny jolts awake with a jump, momentarily dragging me closer towards his body as if to subconsciously protect me from whatever had woken him.

"Awkt, LT.. ever heard of a lie in??" Johnny complains, with a deeper than usual morning voice. He gives me one final squeeze and deeply inhales the top of my head before releasing me. "Sorry Lass... did no one tell ya that I'm a cuddler..?" he teases. I huff a small giggle, blush and roll away, moving towards the bathroom.

Ghost doesn't say anything whatsoever. Just sits down on the other side of the large bed, facing away from me. I really am starting to draw last night's conversation off as imaginary.. the hanky in my hand suggests otherwise though..

When I return from the bathroom, Johnny and the Lieutenant are discussing something. I overhear them mention El Sin Nombre.. hang on a second... something sparks in my memory. I close my eyes and try to think back through the haze of my prior missions and intel I had collected.. think, Laika, THINK...

"Got a headache, Lass?" Johnny asks - do I really look like that when I'm trying to think...? Thanks Johnny..

"Oh, uhm.. no, just trying to remember something..."

"Don't tell me you to took a bang to the head that you dinnae tell us about as well, lass?"

"No. no no, nothing like that.. it's just that name.. El Sin Nombre.. 'the nameless..' - it -uhm - it's familiar.."

The Lieutenant perks up.

"Familiar how?" he growls.

"I - I don't know yet.. I might just be confused" he eyes me suspiciously but doesn't say anything. His deep grunt ends the conversation.

*Alejandro's POV*

Rudy and I show the visitors to their rooms. Rudy had caught me up about the Garrick girl earlier, I still can't put my finger on why I feel like I know her. I settle in bed while Rudy showers, mind running at a million miles a second.

The sniper..

The fucking sniper. The one that missed the shot. I was a sitting duck. And the sniper missed. Her eyes. I can see her eyes..

"what's the matter mi corazón?" my Omega's voice snaps me from my thoughts. "Rudy.. the girl. She's the sniper.." I growl.

"Yes, she had the sniper rifle slung over her back, remember..?" No! He isn't following..

"No, Rudy.. the sniper.. when the Cartel had you and I was cornered.. remember I mentioned a sniper?"

"Oh.. No, Alejo, that couldn't have been her..? You didn't mention the sniper was a girl.."

"I saw the eyes. Nothing else, Rudy.. just the eyes and her shadow.. there was smoke and flames everywhere.."

"Alejo.. I think you must have mistaken her for someone else.. She was nervous with her weapons today.. not some lone assassin. It doesn't make sense.." Rudy tries to calm me down.. but I was a wolf with the taste of blood now. I know that it was her. I just need to prove it.

"Rudy.. I don't trust her. Promise me you'll be careful. She could be undercover... treat her suspiciously until she proves otherwise, ok , Omega?.. I mean it!"

"Yes, Alpha.. I understand.."

Good. I was not going to take any chances. Having so many new faces in my HQ makes me territorial. I had to watch my soldiers and, of course, my Omega.

Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

A few hours later, we rendezvous on a rooftop in town. I stay completely silent and plan not to say anything during the meeting. I step forward with Johnny and place myself slightly behind him when I notice that Graves is in attendance.

"Some view from up here, eh Lass?" Johnny whispers to me. I just nod, glancing around nervously.

"My sources tell me all the VIPs in Las Almas will be there tonight. Some are invited, others are, umm..." Alejandro begins, nodding toward a large mansion house over on a hill.

"What's this meeting about?" Graves asks, smirking, pointing a scope at a building beyond the wall.

Alejandro glances towards me, with a suspicious look in his eye. I furrow my eyebrows slightly and face the ground.

"She leaves.." He growls. Johnny's head snaps down to look at me "What, Alejandro..? Why, she is part of our team..?" he argues. My stomach does that lurching thing that it likes to do when someone scares me or makes me nervous. "This information is top secret. I don't need any extra ears listening in.. that includes her" he growls.

I nod and obediently turn away from the group. I whisper to Johnny "It's ok" I gulp "I'll be in the room.." I say as I walk back in the direction we had arrived from.

"Sweetheart, wait!" the smooth drawl of the American Alpha hollers at me. I stop in my tracks. "Hang fire, I'll get one of my boys to escort you back.." he smiles. It looks more genuine than his previous smirks. Maybe he was better when he wasn't in the heat of a battle or interrogation.. I decide to put a tiny bit of trust in the Alpha and nod my head at his offer, not wanting to cause any more of a scene.

"That's a girl" he grins, squeezing my cheek, softly. "Oz! Take the 141's girl back to their room, please!" Graves orders down the radio on his shoulder. "Yup Yup" a voice responds back and within seconds, another Alpha, dressed in all black, appeared in front of me.

He nods his head in the direction he wants me to walk, and with one final look back to Johnny, I leave with the unknown Alpha.

The meeting on the roof continues without me. Alejandro is onto me.. he knows..

About half way back to the Fuerzas Especiales Headquarters, 'Oz' starts trying to make conversation with me.

"So, how'd a little girl like you find her way into the SAS..?" I gulp "they found me.." not a lie, technically..

"Why'd they send you to Las Almas..?" - "I don't know.."

"You don't talk much.." - "You talk too much.."

He goes quiet for a few seconds before laughing heartily.

"That big fella with the skull mask, he's a scary son of a bitch, huh?" - "Yep.. he is"

"He ever take it off.." - "I don't know.."

"we've all heard stories about the Ghost. Dude's a killing machine.." - "Cool.." I wish he would stop fucking talking..

"So, what're you called again.. didn't catch your name.." - rude - "You didn't ask my name.."

"Well I'm asking for it now aren't I?" the Alpha is getting pissed but I don't think he is a threat..

"Laika.." I reply bluntly.

"Russian then..?" shit, he is smarter than he looks..

"No, just the name.." I gulp.

"Why'd they call you after a poor little stray mutt..?" Bile rises to my throat but I swallow it down.

"Just did I guess.." I shrug ending the conversation.

We arrive at the room and he drops me off and turns, leaving me alone. I lock the door as a precaution and curl up on the bed and cry. At least I hadn't broken down in front of the fuckin 'Oz' guy.

*Simon's POV*

I hardly listen to Alejandro and Graves' meeting, too concerned and distracted with the girl being sent away. I'd been clenching my hands so tightly for the entire meeting that my gloves had burst. I can tell that Johnny isn't fully concentrating either. Fuckin' hell.

It was one thing sending her out, another issue entirely watchin' a fuckin' unknown piece of shit shadow Alpha 'escort' her back to our fuckin' room.

As soon as Alejandro tells us to gear up for the mission, Johnny and I practically run back towards the room. The fuckin' door’s locked. I contemplate kicking the fuckin' thing down before she whimpers from the other side..

*Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

I hear the door rattling and then growls and grunts from outside.

"Guys.. is that you..?" - "It's us - open the fuckin' door" the Lieutenant bellows. Great, I'd pissed him off again..

I open the door and the pair of large Alphas quickly step into the room, sniffing like crazy. "You alright, Lass? Dick didn't try anythin' did he?" Johnny growls.

"He was fine. Tried to chat but I didn't really feel like talking.." I reassure him that I am ok.

"Why have you been cryin'?" - "I haven't.." I lie.

The Lieutenant scoffs from behind me. "Stop tellin' lies girl.."

Shit, Alejandro told them.. shit shit shit... The Lieutenant wrinkles his nose and turns away from me.

*Ghost's POV*

Ergh, that fuckin' bitter smell she gives off when she is scared. I have to turn away this time. Why is she scared..? Why did Alejandro kick her from the meeting. There is something going on..

Laika's (Y/N's) POV*

"What - what is the plan..?" I ask, trying to change the subject.

"I'm goin' in, pretendin' to have intel.." my eyes widen.. "What?! Johnny.. that's dangerous.."

"Tried to tell him that.." Ghost grunts

"Awkt, I'll take my chances, plus, Graves gave me this to sell the act.." he holds out a Shadow company insignia..

"El Sin Nombre should be there.. I'll take him down" Johnny says confidently. Him... my brain repeats, unhelpfully.

"Graves is in the air, I'm on overwatch.." the Lieutenant grumbles, clearly not happy with the plan.

"And me..?" I question, wondering my place in this shit show.

"You stay here and wait for us to come back, Lass"

WHAT.. NO WAY. NO FUCKING WAY.

"That's an order" the Lieutenant says with finality. I spin around and run to the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it.

Arghhhhh!!!!

El Sin Nombre, come on Laika think! Think like the Asset again.. you know this.. you need to know this...

I stay in the bathroom, plotting my next move. I wait until I hear the obvious sign that Johnny and the Lieutenant had booted up and left. I quickly scamper out of the bathroom and down the hall. I follow the long corridor, turning three lefts and then finally a right hand turn. I was in the area that the Shadows were staying. I sneak up and down the halls, it was pretty much empty. They must have moved out to catch this 'El Sin Nombre' guy.. guy? my brain, once again, uselessly adds. Why does it keep doing that..?

I head into the room with a 'female' sign on the door - weird. I hadn't seen any female shadows but they must have had a couple at least because this room had certainly been slept in. I rifle around in drawers and bags and eventually find a well fitting uniform. I quickly get dressed, flying back down the hallways to my room. I bump in to a Vaqueros soldier. SHIT.

He laughs at me running - "looks like you've missed your shift, little Shadow, eh?" he teases in a heavy accent. I freeze. What do I do..?

"I'll catch up.." I shout back, in a rubbish American accent. It seems to work. "If you're quick.. they went to the huge mansion house at the back of the town.. you better run along, now, little Shadow" he chuckles.

"Thank you - I will" I sprint to the room, dropping off my clothes. I carefully tuck my hanky underneath Johnny's bag, electing that it was too dangerous to bring it with me if I was pretending to be a shadow.

I rush back to the main entrance of the headquarters and, as fast as my feel carry me, run towards the final car getting loaded up. I am carrying my sniper and assault rifle. I keep my head down and pull the black mask over my chin and nose, covering half of my face. I pull the goggles and helmet down over the top half of my face. I hope they don't bother to look.

I step into the final seat, casually and calm, as if I was supposed to be there. Inside, my stomach is twisting. "Shadows.. Commander Graves has had a little.. change of plan.." the commanding officer of this group says, as if he is planning something. My entire body tenses.. This doesn't sound good.

"Graves has ordered for us to form a road block. When - if - the 141 and Vaqueros arrive back to base, we will have taken control. Understood, Shadow Company?" he cheers.

"yup yup" - "yup yup, sir" - "yup yup" my eyes dart around. I join in "yup yup" I say, pretending to be cheerful and excited.

"Now, listen up, Shadows.. Shepherd has put Commander Graves in charge of this operation from here on out. It's time to let the pros finish this. Any resistance from the Mexican's or the Brits and it's lights out for them. We have full execute authority - HOWEVER we would prefer them alive. Shepherd believes that they could have useful intel and he also wants the girl. Oz reported back that her name is Laika - we have done some digging and have reason to believe she has links to Makarov - stay alert, stay ready, stay sharp, Shadows on three!"

I feel sick to my stomach. Everything goes blurry. I almost pass out.

"THREE" - "SHADOWS" they roar in unison.

C'mon Asset, screw your head back on

"The girl - where is she..?" one of the Shadows ask. "We have sent some boys down to take care of her. She will be safely... detained. I don't believe she is much of a threat, anyway.. just scruff her and she becomes anyone's bitch, ain't that right boys..?" he jokes, all of them laughing loudly.

The armoured jeep jerks forward, and the Shadows thankfully go quiet. They park just outside the main gates.

It's pouring with rain, but the Shadows all step out from the armoured vehicles so I follow suit.

We must be standing in the rain for around thirty minutes. Thirty minutes that is filled with screaming, yelling and gunfire from inside the facility, My heart aches. I hope Rudy is ok.. he had been left behind to organise emergency exfil if they had needed it - the shadows were rounding up the Vaqueros. I cringe and try not to whimper. All of a sudden, there is a crackle through the man in charge's radio.

"Shadow-1 to standby. They all made it, amazingly. They are in the third vehicle. Stop them and, if they come willingly, we will be kind. If they try to fight, we.. well y'know.."

Graves.. Fucking snake. I will kill him myself if I get the chance.

"yup yup" the leader of my group replies.

"three minutes out"

It must be the longest three minutes of my life. I am drenched down to the skin. Shaking like a leaf. Please come willingly I pray, knowing that the Shadows had given themselves full execute authority.

Headlights shine from the dirt track. Three black jeeps roll in. They let the first jeep through the road block but step in front of the second and third.

Graves steps out of the middle truck, standing right in front of me.

Doors slam from behind me, Johnny, Simon and Alejandro step out of the third jeep. Two Shadow soldiers also step out, immediately circling behind them. They were surrounded.

Alejandro marches forward angrily.

"What's this??!" he barks, getting in Graves' face.

"This is the immediate future. Step away from the gate" Graves replies cooly.

"What?!" Johnny says, confused and angrily - "You heard me.." he taunts back.

The Lieutenant stays behind, observing. I swear his eyes settle on me for a second longer than the others. Shit...

"You're crazy.. this is my base..!!" the Mexican Alpha shouts, stepping closer again, to Graves. One of the Shadows beside me, readies his gun. I gulp, all eyes dart to the sound of the safety being clicked off.

"It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it- So, I'm taking it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service" - bold fucking bastard. Backstabbing, snake son of a bitch.

"No no no, I don't take orders from you.." - "Didn't Valeria say that..?" Graves teases back, aggressively. My mind flashes - Valeria.. Valeria.. I know that name...

Alejandro suddenly rushes forward, pushing Graves slightly "What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo..." he growls.

Johnny then steps forward to pull Alejandro back.."You're out of line, Graves.." Johnny growls in the most dangerous tone I had ever heard from the Alpha.

"Don't do that. Don't... do that. No one needs to get hurt here.." Graves says in a mildly suspicious way.. I gulp again and ready my gun with a small click. The lieutenant's eyes definitely flash towards my small movement this time. He finally speaks up.

"ARE YOU THREATNIN' US?!" he barks. A couple of the Shadows step a tiny bit backwards. I remember that Oz had said that they'd been talking about Ghost - how they thought he was terrifying. Good. They should be fuckin' scared of him...

"Soldier" Graves warns.. "I don't make threats. I make guarantees. So, let's not do this"

Johnny turns abruptly and growls "I'm calling Shepherd"

"General Shepherd sends his regards" Bastard. bastard. bastard.

Johnny freezes.

"He told me y'all wouldn't take this well" Graves practically jokes... I grind my jaw underneath the mask.

"He knows about this?" the Lieutenant barks. I could tell that he was absolutely seething.

"He's put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y'all need to stand down. It's time to let the pros finish this" - condescending slimy wanker.

Johnny and the Lieutenant glance sideways at each other. I try to tap into their thoughts but I wasn't used to being up close and personal with a ticking time bomb. I was used to sniping and sneaking...

"And why the hell are we talking like this is some kind of a negotiation? It's not. I've got my orders and now you have yours" Graves continues, adding salt to the wound..

That comment is what breaks Alejandro's , already fragile, resolve. He lifts his upper lip and growls "And who the fuck do you think you are, cabron? My men are inside!"

Graves chuckles, "I'm afraid not. Your men have been... detained"

I see the absolute death glare Alejandro gives Graves before he launches himself at him.

Graves and one of the Shadows standing beside me push Alejandro against a vehicle and restrain him with a zip tie.

"Graves, what the fuck?!" Johnny shouts, still confused and shocked. Poor Johnny - why did he seem shocked? The guy's been creepy from the beginning..

The Shadow beside Graves opens fire on Johnny, I audibly gasp. All hell breaks loose.. I fire messily to begin with - not sure where everyone was seeing as they'd all moved so suddenly.

Alejandro screams "Get your fucking hands off of me--"

Graves grabs him by the hair and knocks him out with the butt of his rifle.

Graves then turns his attention back to Johnny. Johnny manages to grab a shadow's sidearm and fires at one of Graves' men, killing him, he aims at me, and fires. I jump, in fear before remembering that I am a Shadow right now. And they're gonna shoot at anyone that looks like a Shadow. I needed to be smarter about this now.

I glance to where the Lieutenant kills a Shadow with a knife. Man's a killing machine, alright..

My attention is snapped away by a sharp roar.

Graves had shot Johnny. My body convulses and I shoot three Shadows in quick succession. Pure terror and rage taking over my insticts.

Johnny falls backward to the ground with his dead hostage Shadow on top of him.

Graves steps away from me to his right to look around the vehicle. He was looking for the Lieutenant. I spot Ghost, who pops his head out from the vehicle's rear corner and finds Johnny on the ground.

I hear him shouting "Go, Johnny!, get out of there! Soap - Go!"

Johnny pushes the dead Shadow off of him and launches himself over the concrete barrier sliding down the hill as Graves' men fire on him.

shit shit shit

"Get him - Now!" Graves shouts. I feel a hard push on my shoulder and turn to face whoever had shoved me. It was Graves. "Pull your fuckin' weight Soldier" he growls at me, hanging me by the Shadow standard tactical vest. FUCK.

"Yup Yup" Where the fuck did that come from. He drops me and shoves me towards the direction that Johnny had fallen. I see multiple Shadows on his tail. Think Laika, THINK!

I hear a loud "Fuck!" from up ahead. It was Johnny. I run past a dead Shadow but then notice a discarded gun. Johnny must have ran out of ammo. I've got to catch up with him...

"You there, Ghost? That was a big mistake, brother. It did not have to be like this" I hear from behind me.. fuck, they'd caught him.. he had to be surrounded...

There is a long silence with no words spoken or bullets shot.. Sorry for leaving you, Lieutenant... I hope he is okay...

"SONOVABITCH... Find 'em!" Graves barks...

Had he escaped..? had he actually managed to trick them..?

I find myself praying to any God that will listen that we somehow all manage to get out of this shit show alive...

A radio that I didn't know I had crackles to life inside my mask reminding me of my current situation.

"Shadows - We've lost em' all... FUCK - FIND THEM.. FUCKING FIND THEM" Graves roars down the comms. Lots of 'yup yups' stream back through, along with distant gunfire and yelling.

"We've got Alejandro - no fuckin' Omega of his though! The task force are gone - got a good hit on Mohawk though.. he won't last long.. FUCKING GET MOVIN' BOYS. I want them by morning".. he continues, angrily screaming instructions.

I feel elated that Rudy has escaped.. but then my heart sinks when he says that Johnny won't last long. I need to find him.. and fast...

"And the girl.. I want her... ALIVE, understood?"

My blood runs cold.

[queenimmadolla]

For the blurb thing

Eddie

Bath

Fluff

𝐝𝐚𝐝!𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 '𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 ─ because i don't want to keep track of a bunch of different dad!eddies

“This is fucking gross.” 

“Well, you smell gross. So.”

Eddie huffed, brows furrowed in irritation as he leaned his back against the shower tile. The baby in his arms slapped her palms furiously against the red mixture of water and tomato juice filling your small tub, the splashback splattering across Eddie’s face.

He looked ridiculous. You’d already taken the pictures. 

The trailer was lucky enough to be equipped with a small…tub of sorts. Really, it seemed to be only suitable for children, no grown adult could bath comfortably in one of these. 

Yet, here Eddie found himself, folded up in it with his knees poking out, no leg room, no back room–his ‘lean’ put him at a 92 degree angle, if he was lucky– holding a one year old, who had most definitely already peed in the mixture.

So, now he was sitting in tomato juice, water and piss.

Eddie was not happy.

“There we go,” You sang, as you poured the last can, tapping the bottom of it for good measure.

“Is that necessary?” He snapped. 

You took no offense, eyes wary as you eyed him from top to knee before locking eyes again, “You need every drop.”

Then you pinched your nose and Eddie rolled his eyes.

What had been a promising start to family day at the park–picnic basket, copy of a new book you’d picked out at the bookstore in town with a couple of penny’s favorite blocks to beat into the ground, in hand–quickly turned disastrous when Eddie had taken Penny over to a tree she’d been pointing towards and babbling at while you set up the blanket, and the two of them had promptly been sprayed by a skunk hiding behind the tree trunk.

You’d heard a lot of screaming and squealing. Penny even yelled out once.

The car ride back was agony, having the front windows rolled down and the back ones propped open didn’t help, you’d had to stick your head out the window, uncaring about other people in passing cars. If being compared to a dog meant you didn’t have to smell your husband and baby, you’d bark.

Eddie had to stand outside the trailer holding Penny while you rummaged around for a Wellness magazine you’d seen the measurements for a tomato juice bath in once. When you appeared in the doorway, magazine clutched in your hands and held in the air victoriously, Eddie and Penny got to go inside while you took your car–and not his stinky van–to the market to pick up some tomato juice.

Eddie hadn’t been willing to sit in it. If it weren’t for Penny, you would have had to chase him around the trailer but you'd been able to gaslight him into thinking Penny wouldn’t like this particular bath since it wasn’t just water. A low blow since you knew how distressed he got when she cried.

So he’d gotten in. And Penny was having the freaking time of her young life.

“Do you like your bath, baby?” You cooed, leaning forward as she beamed up at you, toothless mouth open wide with her smile and those big brown eyes of hers sparkling. All because it was you talking to her, she loved you so much, “Yeah, awww, such a good stinky girl, huh?”

Penny squealed in agreement, hands slapping down against the water again, making Eddie flinch. Then she wiggled, chubby arms reaching out to you, asking you to pick her up and hold her but you quickly ran out of the breath you were holding so you yanked yourself back for a breather. The car ride might have got you a little familiar with their scent but you weren’t nose blind. 

Eddie took offense, “How long do we have to sit in this?”

“Until you don’t stink.” You scooped some of the mixture up in a plastic cup and poured it over his head, trying not to laugh at the frenzied look on his face.

Penny didn’t hide it, she laughed openly, turning so she could be sure to make eye contact with her daddy. She got the same hair treatment, but she was used to having her hair washed this way, she loved it. 

“And exactly how long is that, dearest?” That had been the closest he’d been to calling you a bitch.

“Uhm,” You gave Penny the cup to play with while you wiped your hand off and picked up the magazine resting on the small sink counter. It had been open, you scanned past the measurements until you reached the set time, “twenty minutes.”

Eddie was about to launch into complaints when he noticed your slight frown and the furrow in your brows.

“Huh.” Is all you said, head cocking to the side

“What?”

You were silent for a moment, reading the sentence over again in your head before you read aloud, “Does not eliminate or neutralize odor.”

“WHAT!?”

“I know right? Why would they provide the measurements for the tomato juice and water ratio if it doesn’t even work? Is this an amateur? Some sucker is walking around, thousands of dollars in debt with a degree in journalism, only to write about myt–”

“GET ME OUT!”

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

i need IVy so bad hes so sweet :(( i just want him to overstimulate me and use me and tell me how cute i look crying for him

Not maybe fully along the request but still a smut sooooooo 😌

Quickies

He doesn’t usually let loose like that. He’s wild and all don’t get me wrong but when it came to you, when it came to sex that shit was for him to enjoy behind closed doors. Cause he liked to take his time. Liked to make you scream. And those things didn’t go hand in hand with quickies. But desperate times called for desperate measures and today was just one of those days. He needed you. To the point where the rehearsal had been painful. In more than one way. So he’s dragging you by the hand the moment he has a green card for a break.

It’s messy and rushed. You have no recollection as to when ivy had pulled your dress down, freeing your breast or how the maintenance shelf is suddenly empty. “Oh, shit, fuck”, you cried out at the feeling of iv filling you painfully full, yet you could feel your body growing slicker. Your arms braced on his shoulders as he thrusted into you with an unmatched force, making the whole shelving unit shake. “Shhh”, he hissed after another shameless moan slipped past your lips. “Gotta keep your mouth shut or I will stuff your panties there to keep you quiet”, he barked out with a grunt, pushing two of his fingers past your lips. That you eagerly sucked on without any complaints. Before his hands go back between your thighs. Thumb putting just the right amount of pressure on your clit as he swirls his fingers perfectly. Making your toes curl.

Your hands slip from his shoulders to his chest before you reach out behind him, nails digging into his bum as you pull him closer. “Less talking, pretty boy…”, you breathed out, “More fucking”, you whined, throwing your head back right as his cock hit that delicious spot deep within making your thighs tremble. “Fuck you”, Ivy grunted, hand cupping your breast as he leaned in, lips carelessly nibbling at your neck, sucking onto your perky nipples. You clenched around him and from the way his thighs shivered sending vibrations through your own body, you were sure he was close to his release.

“You are… fuck”, you cried out eyelids fluttering when he continued to roll his hips as if he was made to fuck you all along, “You are fucking me”, you blurred out in one breath, clawing at his back no doubt leaving marks. “Smart-ass”, he grunted, “fuck you are so wet and fucking warm, baby”, Ivy gripped your hips tighter, pulling you even further down onto him, “Taking me so well”. Biting out a moan you buried your face in the crook of his neck. Only his name and curses leaving your mouth now.

He braced himself against the shelves for the final thrusts. You bit the slope of his shoulder once the coiled-up thread finally exploded. Your body shortcut for a moment as black dots fill your vision. All you could do was clench around him and once you felt as if it couldn’t get any more blissful you felt iv’s dick pulsing inside you and another wave of warmth flowed through your body. Sending over the edge once again. “Shit”, he hissed at the feeling of your walls milking him dry, the sound of sloppy thrust filling the small room that surrounded you.

Ivy let out a breathless chuckle, “You good?”, he pulled up to look at you, right as a can of some washing liquid clattered to the floor making you jump. The friction causing you both to moan in unison. “Fuck, you are one of a kind”, he grunted, bottoming out one last time. “Ivy, too much”, you huffed, the stretch of him feeling a tad uncomfortable now. “Maybe I need to break my rule of no quickies with you”, he kissed your shoulder lovingly, before pulling the top of your dress back up. “Lord, I don’t know if I can handle you like this”, you admitted with a chuckle. Ivy quickly sorted himself out before pulling a handful of tissue as he carefully wiped your thighs off. “Do you think anyone heard us?”, you asked once he pulled you back on your feet. Your fingers quickly smooth out his shirt. “I did, unfortunately, cheers you fucking animals”, iii voice sounded from the other side of the door. Your eyes grew big as you covered your mouth. “Don’t fucking smirk you asshole”, you hit iv’s chest as he giggled away, “Not my problem I fucked you so good the whole stadium knows you have my cum dripping down your legs”, his fingers slipped between your legs once more as he teased them right by your clit. “Iv”, you grunted but he withdrew from you, licking his fingers before unlocking the door, “Ladies first”, he smirked and you just flipped him off.